A  WOMAN'S  TALENT 


AND 


OTHER     STORIES 


BY 

JULIA   MORRELL   HUNT 


BOSTON 
DE  WOLFE,    FISKE    &    CO, 

361  AND  365  WASHINGTON  STREET 


COPYRIGHT,  1891,  BY 
DK  WOLFE,  FISKE  &  Co. 


TYPOGRAPHY  AND  ELECTROTYPING  BY 
C.  J.  PETERS  &  SON,  BOSTON. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  WOMAN'S  TALENT 7 

PAUL 59 

A  MODERN  ACTRESS 89 

THE  HEROINE  OF  A  PICTURE 147 

FRIENDSHIP?  A  SKETCH 181 

THE  LOST  JEWEL 217 

A  STRANGE  CHOICE 241 


2O61S24 


A  WOMAN'S  TALENT. 


A  WOMAN'S  TALENT. 


"  So  you  knew  Elofsa  de  Sevrenac  —  Eliza  Mari- 
ner was  her  maiden  name  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  knew  her  well,"  replied  Mr.  Sebastian 
Jones,  as  he  sat  lazily  before  the  open  window, 
stroking  the  ends  of  his  fair  mustache.  His  pale 
face  was  in  the  full  glare  of  the  morning  light ; 
his  gray  eyes  were  half  closed,  as  though  to  shield 
their  color  from  the  sun. 

"  Where  did  you  first  meet  her,  Jones  ?  and  was 
it  at  the  time  of  her  literary  fame  ?  " 

"  I  met  her  in  Paris.  I  first  knew  of  her  writ- 
ings through  her  husband,  who  spoke  of  them  in 
reference  to  himself." 

"  She  had  great  talent.  The  publishers  waited 
in  vain  for  a  second  book,  but  they  said  she 
stopped  writing  after  that  first  production." 

"  Madame  de  Sevrenac  never  finished  but  one 
book,  and  it  was  a  great  success." 

7 


8  A    WOMAN^S   TALENT. 

"  How  like  a  foolish  woman  to  throw  her  talent 
aside  at  the  very  moment  when  it  might  come  to 
good." 

"  Madame  de  Sevrdnac  was  not  a  foolish  woman, 
but  a  wise  one ;  she  gave  up  her  work  to  please 
her  husband."  The  color  came  into  Mr.  Sebas- 
tian Jones's  pale  face  as  he  turned  away  to  light 
his  cigar. 

"  You  were  a  friend  of  Monsieur  de  Sevrdnac 
during  your  sojourn  in  Paris,  were  you  not  ?  " 

"  It  was  through  the  husband  I  came  to  know 
the  wife." 

"A  very  beautiful  girl,  I  always  thought." 

"And  a  very  gifted  one,"  said  Mr.  Sebastian 
Jones  quietly. 

"  How  came  she  to  change  her  Christian 
name  ? " 

"  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  could  not  pronounce 
Eliza :  his  foreign  tongue  refused  to  form  the  syl- 
lable." 

"  Eloisa  suits  the  girl  well." 

"  Yes ;  for  in  her  ways  she  is  almost  a  French 
woman  now,"  said  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones. 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  9 

In  Paris  the  whirl  was  increasing,  the  business 
growing,  the  crowd  multiplying,  the  gayety  pro- 
gressing. 

Maurice  de  Sevrenac  was  out. 

His  wife,  Eloi'sa  de  Sevrenac,  was  at  home. 

Impatiently  in  her  salon  she  awaited  his  return ; 
anxiously  she  looked  for  his  presence.  At  every 
sound  she  started  ;  at  every  carriage  wheel  she 
listened.  She  sat  alone  ;  her  white  hands  clasped 
around  her  knees,  her  head  forward  to  catch  the 
familiar  tread  of  his  footsteps  on  the  stair. 
Stretching  out  her  hand  she  lightly  touched  the 
bell  for  her  servant  to  appear.  A  knock  followed 
at  the  curtained  door ;  the  butler  stood  before 
her. 

"  Bring  me  some  tea,  Francois.  You  need  not 
wait  for  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac." 

Just  then  a  carriage  stopped  in  the  street  below ; 
Madame  de  Sevrenac  pressed  her  lace  handker- 
chief to  her  brow.  "  It  is  he,"  she  murmured. 
Then  as  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  came  in  she  rose 
to  meet  him.  He  was  large  and  conspicuous  look- 
ing, his  face  stern,  his  forehead  wrinkled  like 
that  of  a  man  who  had  lived  many  years,  planned 
many  projects,  thought  many  thoughts,  accom- 


10  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

plished  many  things.  His  dress  was  fashionable  ; 
his  appearance  striking. 

"  You  are  late,  Maurice,"  said  the  young  girl. 

"  Not  very  late,"  replied  her  husband,  putting 
down  his  gloves  before  taking  his  wife's  hand.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon  if  I  have  kept  you  waiting." 

"  No,  you  have  not  kept  me  waiting,  but  it 
seemed  long  until  you  came." 

He  laughed  briefly,  and  walking  to  the  tea-table 
begged  that  he  might  have  a  strong  cup  of  tea. 
Madame  de  Sevrenac  poured  out  the  steaming 
beverage,  her  hand  trembled  as  she  dropped  the 
lumps  of  sugar  into  the  dainty  Dresden  cup.  Her 
cheeks  burned  as  she  saw  her  husband  watching 
her. 

"  Enough  sugar,  EloYsa,  I  always  take  but  two 
lumps  ;  to-day  you  honor  me  with  four."  The  girl 
laughed  nervously  and  said  she  must  be  growing 
older,  —  absent-minded,  perhaps. 

Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  raised  his  cup  to  his  lips  ; 
as  he  put  it  back  upon  the  tray,  he  glanced  admir- 
ingly at  his  well-polished  fingers. 

"  Maurice,"  said  his  wife,  then  stopped,  embar- 
rassed. 

"  Yes  ?  "  replied  her  husband. 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  II 

"  You  have  brought  my  book  to  me  ?  Remem- 
ber you  promised  to  bring  it  to-day." 

"I  always  keep  my  promise,"  he  said. 

"  Is  the  binding  a  success  ? "  cried  the  girl, 
flushing. 

"  Ask  rather  if  the  composition  is  a  success," 
said  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  wisely. 

"  But,  Maurice,  I  am  so  delighted  to  think  that 
my  stories  are  complete."  She  clasped  her  hands 
about  her  husband's  arm  and  looked  up  into  his 
face  with  her  bright  smile.  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac 
drew  his  brows  together  in  his  troubled  fashion. 

"  I  have  been  excited  all  day  at  the  prospect  of 
seeing  the  book  at  last.  Quickly,  give  it  to  me, 
Maurice."  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  withdrew  from 
his  wife's  embrace.  He  walked  promptly  to  the 
table,  and  picking  up  a  neatly  wrapped  parcel  gave 
it  to  the  girl.  Hastily  she  untied  the  string,  ner- 
vously she  undid  the  paper  covering. 

"  My  book  !  "  she  cried,  holding  it  up  in  her 
slender  fingers.  Her  lips  quivered  and  her  hands 
grew  cold  as  she  turned  the  leaves  of  her  own 
book.  In  print  she  read  the  names  of  her  own 
stories  ;  in  print  she  gazed  at  the  words  of  her 
own  manuscripts  ;  in  print  she  saw  her  own  writ- 


12  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

ings  ;  her  ambitions  gratified  ;  her  hopes  fulfilled  ! 
As  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  watched  her  his  face 
grew  stern  and  his  expression  did  not  reflect  her 
happiness,  her  joy.  He  was  a  proud,  a  difficult 
man.  To  him  his  wife's  talent  was  an  annoyance, 
a  bore.  Her  work  was  a  mistake,  a  mortification 
to  his  stern  character,  to  his  peculiar  mind.  He 
disliked  to  think  that  his  wife  gave  her  opinions, 
her  thoughts,  her  ideas,  —  her  very  self  to  the 
curious,  eager  world.  His  wife  should  belong  to 
him  and  to  him  alone.  But  EloYsa  did  not  seem 
to  understand.  To  have  an  occupation,  an  inter- 
est, a  dream,  was  all  she  wanted,  all  she  craved. 
To  the  young  woman  her  stories  were  but  the 
expression  of  her  thought,  the  reflection  of  her 
soul.  Eliza  Mariner  had  settled  down  in  the 
French  capital  as  the  wife  of  an  older  man.  In 
America  she  had  been  satisfied  with  her  own 
independence,  her  own  surroundings.  But  the 
momentary  glitter  of  the  Parisian  city,  the  fash- 
ion of  the  Parisian  life  had  dazzled  her.  Monsieur 
Maurice  de  Sevrenac  was  well-born,  well-bred, 
well-mannered.  The  girl  felt  proud  of  his  friend- 
ship, proud  of  his  attentions.  In  him  she  had 
hoped  to  find  Her  life.  She  bade  good-by  to  her 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  13 

own  people  with  a  stout  heart  and  with  a  brave 
spirit. 

"  I  am  quite  content  ;  you  must  not  think  of 
me,"  she  said,  as  her  father  passed  his  handker- 
chief across  his  eyes  in  parting  from  her. 

In  her  new  life,  as  the  wife  of  the  Frenchman, 
for  a  time  her  thoughts  were  diverted,  her  days 
occupied.  But  at  length  the  minutes  seemed  to 
slacken,  the  hours  to  lengthen  in  her  married  life. 
She  wondered  how  other  women  did  when  the  first 
flutter  of  their  wedding  had  subsided  ;  when  peo- 
ple no  longer  asked  about  them  ;  talked  about 
them  ;  planned  the  present  and  future  of  their 
lives. 

Elofsa  de  Sevrenac  had  no  desire  to  sit  idly  in 
the  world  with  her  hands  folded.  She  wanted 
occupation.  Often  she  would  watch  her  husband 
in  his  business  interests,  in  his  social  pleasures, 
with  a  certain  kind  of  envy  in  her  young  heart. 
She  felt  she  stood  aside,  like  a  stranger  looking 
on.  Her  queer  nature  needed  sympathy,  needed 
understanding  of  a  different  kind.  She  spoke 
French  easily  ;  she  understood  it  perfectly.  As  a 
proof  of  her  kindness,  the  first  winter  of  her 
marriage  she  had  persuaded  her  young  sister 


14  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

to  remain  in  France.  Few  women  would  do 
that. 

"  Make  your  home  with  me !  "  she  generously 
cried,  and  the  girl  did  so. 

Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  had  married  late  in  life. 
He  was  a  much  respected,  a  widely  courted  man. 
He  was  correct  in  his  manners,  correct  in  his 
dress.  He  was  formal  in  his  speech,  formal  in  his 
ideas.  He  was  particular  in  his  tastes,  partic- 
ular in  his  home.  To  his  wife  he  was  polite, 
respectful  always. 

But  it  happened  that  Elo'fsa  de  Sevrenac  saw 
she  needed  occupation,  her  days  were  not  full 
enough,  she  felt.  So  on  she  lived  and  hoped  and 
waited  for  a  sign  of  some  talent,  for  an  interest  in 
her  days.  Gradually  the  truth  seemed  to  dawn 
upon  her,  the  light  began  to  stream  through  her 
mind.  She  had  not  looked  in  vain,  for  lo !  she 
found  her  talent.  With  her  pen  in  hand  she  lived 
in  another  world,  she  dreamed  in  a  new  land. 
Faster  and  faster  came  her  ideas  ;  wider  and 
wider  spread  her  understanding.  The  atmosphere 
seemed  to  change  ;  the  birds,  the  trees,  the 
flowers,  came  to  know  her  mind,  her  thought,  her 
soul.  In  her  work  she  found  a  higher  life,  a  life 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  15 

sne  loved  too  well.  Then  her  husband  began  to 
realize  the  change.  Little  by  little  he  saw  that  in 
her  occupation  she  was  drifting  from  him.  They 
had  been  married  not  a  year  when  Eloi'sa  seemed 
content  to  have  him  absent ;  content  to  be  alone. 
The  proud  man  held  his  peace,  but  he  felt  his 
disappointment  keenly.  He  suffered  the  day  he 
learned  the  truth.  He  realized  that  this  ambition 
would  be  the  most  precious  interest  of  her  life. 
How  differently  he  had  planned  her  future  a  few 
short  months  ago !  One  time  he  tried  to  show  his 
disapproval  by  a  word,  a  look  ;  but  with  no  avail 
whatever.  Eloi'sa  seemed  blinded  to  his  disap- 
pointment, to  his  judgment  of  her  work.  The 
girl's  mind  ran  on  ;  her  brain  evolved  its  plans,  its 
plots. 

When  Monsieur  de  Sevre"nac  examined  the 
manuscripts  he  was  surprised  at  her  ingenuity, 
her  talent.  EloTsa  was  radiant  at  his  praise. 

In  her  enthusiasm  she  often  wrote  in  the  late 
evenings  when  her  husband  was  away,  and  far  into 
the  lonely  nights  she  would  form  the  characters  of 
her  days,  her  life.  Thus  twelve  busy  months  flew 
by.  Her  manuscripts  were  complete  for  publica- 
tion ;  her  stories  showed  the  strength,  the  pathos, 


1 6  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

of  her  mind.  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  did  not  speak 
out  when  she  begged  him  to  have  them  published 
for  her.  But  he  felt  sorry  all  the  same.  He 
feared  the  fame  which  would  bring  her  into  public 
notice,  and  he  hated  to  have  her  writings  adver- 
tised for  sale. 

Now  when  he  saw  her  excitement  at  the  first 
step  to  her  coming  honors,  to  her  promising  glory, 
he  was  annoyed,  but  was  it  -not  too  late  ? 

"Are  you  not  satisfied  with  my  work?"  she 
cried,  noting  the  look  of  disappointment  in  his 
eyes. 

"  I  am  satisfied  with  the  talent ;  but  as  I  have 
often  tried  to  show  you,  it  is  distasteful  to  me  to 
have  my  wife  pose  as  a  writer  of  fiction." 

"  Even  when  it  is  of  so  pure,  so  pleasing  a 
character  ? " 

"  Yes ;  for  there  are  plenty  of  women  more 
qualified  to  fill  the  role  of  authorship  than  your- 
self." 

"But  if  I  am  successful,  why  am  I  not  qualified 
for  it  too  ? " 

"Because  it  is  out  of  keeping  with  your  position, 
your  prominence  —  your  beauty,  Elolsa." 

Madame  de  Sevrenac  flushed  crimson  :  perhaps 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  I/ 

she  felt  the  depth  of  her  husband's  admiration  for 
her. 

"  I  would  not  willingly  displease  you,  Maurice," 
she  said. 

"Then  give  up  your  writings  for  me."  The 
girl  turned  very  pale. 

"  Give  up  my  writings  !  "  she  cried.  "  Without 
them  I  would  be  miserable  !  " 

"You  pay  me  a  poor  compliment,"  said 
Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  shortly. 

"Would  you  give  up  your  business  for  me?" 
cried  the  girl. 

"  No ;  for  you  would  have  to  make  sacrifices  in 
consequence.  There  is  no  comparison  in  the  two 
cases." 

"  My  work  has  been  a  great  happiness  to  me." 

"  If  your  own  good  judgment  does  not  prove  to 
you  the  mistake  of  continuing  in  it,  my  dear,  I 
shall  say  no  more."  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  moved 
to  the  door  as  he  spoke. 

"My  talent  is  my  judge,"  said  the  girl.  Mon- 
sieur de  Sevrenac  inclined  his  head  in  his  courtly 
fashion.  "  Let  it  be  as  you  desire,"  he  said. 

"  I  would  not  have  put  my  name  to  the  book 
had  I  realized  your  opinion  in  the  matter." 


1 8  A    WOMAN^S   TALENT. 

"  Ah  !  that  is  where  the  danger  comes  in.  As 
an  authoress  you  are  subject  to  criticism,  to  praise, 
to  blame.  I  dislike  that  my  name  should  be  made 
public  without  any  good  excuse,  without  any  real 
cause." 

"The  next  book  I  write  shall  be  anonymous," 
said  Madame  de  Sevrenac  proudly. 

Then  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  went  away  and  left 
her.  She  stood  motionless,  looking  after  him  with 
her  book  open  in  her  hand. 


Soon  she  read  the  criticisms  of  her  work. 
Some  praised  the  strength,  the  greatness,  of  her 
mind.  Others  the  completeness,  the  charm,  of  her 
characters ;  the  freshness,  the  newness,  of  her 
plots.  But  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  read  one  criticism 
which  he  did  not  show  his  wife.  It  was  against 
the  morbid  pathos  of  her  ideas,  against  the  un- 
natural struggles  of  her  thought.  "The  authoress 
"has  suffered  ;  she  is  unhappy  in  her  life  "  —  this 
critic  said. 

How  bitterly  the  husband  scanned  the  cruel 
words,  how-  bitterly  he  scorned  the  insult  to  his 
name  !  His  wife  unhappy  !  Ridiculous  !  Impos- 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  19 

sible  !     His  wife  thus  spoken  of ;  thus  written  of 
in  public  print ! 

One  day  as  the  young  authoress  sat  alone  in 
her  library,  her  paper  before  her,  her  pen  in  hand, 
the  husband  came  home  unexpectedly  to  luncheon. 
He  hurried  up  the  stairs  and  through  the  hall. 
His  wife  did  not  rise  to  greet  him  as  he  entered 
the  room.  She  was  occupied  with  her  writing. 
His  brows  contracted  slightly  as  he  saw  her 
flushed  and  eager  bending  over  her  new  work. 
For  the  authoress  had  won  praise.  She  was 
intent  on  another  book  to  be  finished  within  the 
year.  Her  face  glowed  with  enthusiasm,  with 
talent  as  she  stopped  a  moment  to  take  rest.  She 
turned  and  saw  her  husband  standing  at  her 
side. 

"Maurice!"  she  cried;  "I  did  not  know  that 
you  were  here." 

"I  have  come  to  luncheon  with  you,"  he  said.. 
Slowly  she  pushed  aside   her  papers,  reluctantly 
she  laid   down  her  pen.     He  stooped,  and  with 
his  fingers  lightly  touched  her  brow. 

"  Your  head  is  hot,"  he  said.  She  laughed 
without  replying. 

"You  must  not  write  too  much." 


20  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

"  But  I  never  weary  of  my  work,  Maurice,"  she 
cried. 

"  Your  first  success  has  made  you  wish  for 
greater  laurels  ;  soon  you  should  be  satisfied." 

"  Not  while  my  talent  lasts.  I  long  to  write 
of  greater  subjects,  newer  themes." 

Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  looked  kindly  at  her ; 
for  an  instant  their  eyes  met,  then  the  girl  turned 
away. 

"  Elo'fsa,"  he  said,  "  I  have  invited  a  friend  of 
mine  to  dinner  this  evening." 

"  This  evening,  Maurice  ?  " 

"  This  evening,"  repeated  the  Frenchman  ;  "  and 
of  course  you  will  be  at  home  with^your  most 
gracious  smiles  to  greet  him,  if  you  please."  * 

"Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  He  is  an  American." 

"His  name?" 

"  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones." 

"  Quel  nom  !  "  murmured  Madame  de  Sevrenac. 

"  You  need  make  no  exclamation ;  Sebastian 
is  well  suited  to  our  hospitality  —  to  our 
home." 

"Then  you  expect  me  to  receive  your  guest 
this  evening  ? " 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  21 

"  If  you  please,  my  dear." 

"And  the  engagement  I  have  made  to  take 
my  sister  to  the  opera  ? " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  this  is  my  first  knowl- 
edge of  it  ;  and  under  the  circumstances,  I  fear 
you  will  have  to  find  another  chaperon." 

"  It  is  late  to  do  so  now,  and  I  hate  to  disap- 
point the  girl." 

"  But  she  will  readily  accept  your  explanation," 
said  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac. 

Madame  de  Sevrenac  dressed  herself  in  white 
that  evening.  When  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones  was 
announced  her  face  wore  its  usual  happy  smile. 
To  herself  she  murmured,  "  A  commonplace 
American  whom  I  know  I  shall  dislike." 

Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  stepped  forward  with  out- 
stretched hand  to  greet  his  guest ;  then,  turning 
to  his  wife,  he  said,  "  Madame  de  Sevrenac." 
There  was  something  very  courteous  in  the 
Frenchman's  manner  to  his  wife.  Mr.  Sebastian 
Jones  bowed  to  his  hostess  ;  he  made  no  attempt 
to  offer  her  his  hand. 

"  Madame  de  Sevrenac  sees  few  Americans 
nowadays,"  said  her  husband.  His  effort  to 
begin  the  conversation  was  graceful  and  well 


22  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT, 

put.  The  American  was  not  embarrassed  ;  he 
seemed  at  his  ease  in  the  Parisian  home. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  hope  Madame  de  Sevrenac 
keeps  up  her  interest  in  the  people  of  her  own 
country,"  he  replied. 

"I  am  always  glad  to  be  interested  in  one  so 
welcome  as  yourself,"  said  the  girl  promptly.  The 
man's  pale  face  flushed ;  for  an  instant  his  eyes 
met  those  of  the  young  hostess. 

Soon  after  the  little  party  went  in  to  dinner  : 
an  excellent  meal  it  was.  Madame  de  Sevrenac 
knew  how  to  cater  to  her  husband  and  his 
guests. 

During  dinner  she  found  herself  watching  the 
American.  She  began  to  wonder  if  he  would 
admire  and  like  her.  In  his  bearing  he  was 
deferential,  but  he  had  an  air  of  bored  indiffer- 
ence about  him  which  perplexed  her  greatly.  She 
had  never  seen  any  one  in  the  least  like  him,  she 
thought.  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  talked  easily  to 
the  stranger:  Eloi'sa  could  see  at  a  glance  that 
they  had  been  intimate  for  some  time.  She  won- 
dered how  it  happened  that  two  men  so  different 
could  be  such  good  company  to  each  other.  It 
was  evident  that  Maurice  de  Sevrenac  was 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  23 

strangely  fascinated  by  Sebastian  Jones  ;  it  was 
something  of  a  triumph  for  Sebastian  Jones. 

Maurice  de  Sevrenac  had  many  friends,  but  he 
loved  few  of  them.  These  very  men  looked  up 
to  the  stern  man  with  a  feeling  of  perplexing 
awe.  The  American  did  not  seem  to  have  the 
least  fear  of  his  host ;  he  seemed  to  understand 
him  perfectly.  Their  conversation  was  fluent 
and  sprightly  throughout.  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac 
turned  frequently  to  his  wife  :  he  never  allowed 
her  to  feel  slighted  or  out  of  place  while  at  the 
head  of  his  table,  or  as  the  hostess  of  his  home. 
Sometimes  the  girl  was  absent-minded  :  she  had 
an  unconscious  habit  of  wandering  away  in  the 
company  of  her  own  thoughts  ;  but  then  her 
thoughts  were  filled  with  plans.  After  dinner 
the  two  friends  smoked  together,  but  soon  they 
joined  Madame  de  Sevrenac  in  the  library. 
Elofsa  stood  at  the  window ;  she  had  opened  the 
shutter  to  let  the  soft  summer  wind  blow  in. 
She  leaned  her  slight  form  against  the  half-drawn 
curtain  ;  she  moved  the  blind  so  that  she  could 
look  down  into  the  crowded  streets  below. 

Some  one  called  to  see  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac 
on  business.  For  a  brief  time  the  two  Americans 


24  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

were  left  alone.  Sebastian  crossed  the  room,  and, 
standing  near  the  young  girl,  looked  at  her  with 
kindly  interest  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  are  happy  here  in  Paris  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  never  been  unhappy  anywhere.  I 
don't  quite  know  what  the  expression  means." 

"  You  are  fortunate,"  said  Sebastian. 

"  In  Paris  every  one  is  gay,"  continued  the  girl : 
"one  sees  no  distress,  no  sorrow,  here." 

"  But  it  exists  all  the  same,"  replied  the  young 
man. 

"  I  suppose  it  does,"  said  Madame  de  Sevrenac 
absently.  "  Would  you  like  to  live  here  ? "  she 
asked,  turning  her  face  so  that  he  saw  the  fine 
lines  of  her  profile. 

"  Not  as  a  stranger.  Without  occupation,  with- 
out interests,  I  believe  I  should  .go  mad." 

"  All  men  have  occupations,"  cried  the  girl ; 
"women  have  but  few." 

"  Women  should  be  occupied  quite  as  much  as 
men,  in  a  different  way  of  course."  Sebastian 
watched  the  young  wife  as  he  spoke. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  my  household  duties  should 
suffice  me?"  she  asked.  Sebastian  laughed. 

"  They  might  suffice  other  women,  but  you  are 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  25 

not  like  other  women.  Are  you  ? "  Madame  de 
Sevrenac  grew  pale ;  her  lips  moved,  but  she  did 
not  speak. 

"I  knew  you  were  different,"  he  said,  speaking 
as  though  she  had  agreed  with  him  in  his  question. 
Eloi'sa  laughed  nervously,  and  stretching  out  her 
hand  drew  in  the  shutter. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  said  Sebastian.  He  fas- 
tened the  shutter  to  its  catch.  When  he  looked 
around  he  saw  that  Madame  de  Sevrenac  had 
moved  away. 

"  Have  you  ever  read  this  book  ? "  she  asked, 
holding  up  her  own  volume. 

"  I  have  heard  of  it,"  said  the  young  man,  his 
pale  face  relaxing  into  its  strange  smile. 

"  I  will  lend  it  to  you.  But  you  must  promise 
to  give  me  a  truthful  criticism  when  you  have 
read  it  through." 

"  I  promise,"  said  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones. 

Just  then  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  came  back  and 
joined  them.  It  was  late  when  the  little  party 
broke  up  and  the  stranger  took  his  leave.  Mon- 
sieur de  Sevrenac  remarked  afterward  to  his  wife 
that  the  evening  was  thoroughly  successful,  which 
it  certainly  would  not  have  been  without  her 


26  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

presence.  Madame  de  Sevrenac  smiled  her  thanks. 
The  Frenchman  had  a  very  pleasing  habit  of  com- 
plimenting his  young  wife.  Elolsa  understood  it 
well.  She  had  grown  to  expect  his  polished 
speeches,  his  gracious  words. 

A  few  days  later  the  stranger  came  to  call.  He 
found  Madame  de  Sevrenac  in  her  library.  There 
were  writing  materials  on  the  table,  blank-books, 
sheets  of  paper  everywhere.  He  smiled  as  he 
glanced  at  the  authoress  at  her  work.  She  lifted 
her  head  as  she  heard  his  step  on  the  threshold. 
The  American  noticed  the  deep  flush  in  her  face, 
the  excitement  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  shall  interrupt  you,"  he  said. 

"An  interruption  which  is  pleasant,"  replied  the 
girl,  rising. 

"You  must  not  stop  your  writing  on  my 
account.  See !  I  have  brought  your  book.  Let 
me  finish  the  last  story  while  you  write."  There 
was  something  very  fascinating  about  his  man- 
ner, a  charm  which  Eloi'sa  had  begun  to  rec- 
ognize. 

"  I  shall  write  one  more  page,  then  have  done 
for  this  afternoon,  Mr.  Jones,"  she  said.  "It  is 
better  for  me  not  to  write  too  long;.  When  I  am 


A    WOMAN'S    TALENT.  2J 

weary  the  signs  of  fatigue  seem  to  creep  into  my 
work." 

"  I  shall  take  this  comfortable  chair  and  make 
myself  quite  happy  while  you  write." 

He  seated  himself  near  the  table,  and  opening 
her  book  was  soon  absorbed  in  its  pages.  Madame 
de  Sevrenac  wrote  on.  Twice  she  glanced  at  the 
young  man.  She  noticed  his  refinement,  his 
beauty.  It  seemed  strange  for  her  to  have  this 
friend  beside  her  while  she  worked.  Unconsciously 
she  found  herself  describing  his  appearance,  his 
charms.  Her  pen  ran  on  with  the  history  of  a 
new  story,  the  description  of  a  new  character. 
The  girl  sighed  with  enthusiasm,  with  energy,  to 
write  the  ideas  in  her  mind. 

A  full  hour  passed.  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones  came 
to  the  last  page  of  her  book  and  finished  it.  For 
a  moment  he  sat  still,  his  head  bent  down,  his 
eyes  riveted  to  some  object  on  the  flowered  carpet 
at  his  feet. 

"Mr.  Jones,"  said  Madame  de  Sevrenac,  "you 
promised  me  your  criticism.  I  would  like  to  hear 
it  now."  The  American  roused  himself,  and  then 
said,  "  Your  book  is  interesting,  pathetic,  and 
refined.  I  like  it.  I  like  it  very  much  indeed." 


28  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

The  authoress  trembled  with  excitement ;  she  had 
won  his  praise. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  cried. 

"  Had  I  not  liked  your  work  I  should  have  said 
so,  regardless  of  your  feelings,  however." 

"  You  must  always  be  quite  honest,  when  asked 
to  criticise  another's  writing.  It  would  be  dread- 
ful to  praise  a  work  you  did  not  really  value." 

"  Let  me  see  what  you  are  doing  now,"  said 
Sebastian,  holding  out  his  hand  for  her  manuscript. 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Madame  de  Sevrenac,  "  what  I 
have  been  writing  just  now  you  cannot  see." 

"  Have  you  nothing  else  you  can  show  me  ? " 

"  Here  is  a  story  I  have  finished  lately.  You 
might  read  it  aloud,  so  that  I  can  hear  it  too." 
She  gave  him  a  neat  roll  of  papers  which  he 
opened  and  began  to  read.  It  was  a  short  piece. 
He  soon  finished  it. 

"  Excellent !  "  he  said,  folding  the  manuscript 
up  again. 

"  You  praise  me  too  much,"  exclaimed  Madame 
de  Sevrenac,  blushing  with  excitement  and 
pleasure. 

"  When  do  you  mean  to  bring  out  your  next 
book  ?  "  asked  the  American. 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  29 

"Some  time  this  year." 

"  Does  your  husband  feel  satisfied  with  it  ?  "  he 
asked.  The  young  wife  grew  pale. 

"  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  has  not  read  these 
stories,"  she  said. 

"  Your  husband  is  a  good  judge  of  literature. 
He  has  made  quite  a  study  of  it,  he  tells  me." 

"  I  shall  show  them  to  him  before  they  are  pub- 
lished," said  the  girl. 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Sebastian. 

Soon  after  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  came  home. 
He  was  cordial  to  his  wife,  cordial  to  his  guest  in 
his  well-bred  and  formal  fashion.  But  EloTsa 
seemed  nervous  in  her  manner.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Sebastian  Jones  noticed  it,  for  he  went  away 
directly  after  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  joined  them. 
Perhaps  he  found  it  difficult  to  converse  with 
Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  that  afternoon. 


One  morning  Madame  de  Sevrenac,  who  was 
still  hard  at  work,  promised  to  take  a  walk  with 
her  husband  later  in  the  day.  She  had  planned 
to  finish  a  story  that  afternoon,  but  Monsieur  de 


30  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

Sevrenac  seemed  urgent  that  she  should  accom- 
pany him  to  the  Bois. 

On  their  return  to  dinner  they  met  Mr.  Sebas- 
tian Jones.  Maurice  begged  him  to  remain  with 
them  that  evening.  He  did  so.  As  Madame  de 
Sevrenac  entered  the  library  she  saw  letters  on 
the  table. 

"  The  mail !  "  she  exclaimed  eagerly.  Monsieur 
de  Sevre'nac  stepped  forward  to  get  it  for  her. 

"  One  from  papa,"  said  the  girl.  "  Two  from 
mamma,  one  from  some  one  else,  some  one  un- 
known." She  turned  the  last  envelope  over  in 
her  fingers.  "  No,"  she  murmured,  shaking  her 
head,  "  I  don't  know  the  writer  of  this  one." 
Then  she  looked  doubtfully  at  all  three  letters  to 
see  which  she  should  open  first. 

"  I  shall  open  you,"  she  said  playfully.  Slowly 
she  tore  apart  the  envelope.  Slowly  she  read  her 
letter.  Her  face  flushed  at  first,  then  grew  pale 
as  she  finished  the  contents  of  the  pages. 

"  Good  news,  I  hope,"  said  Monsieur  de  Sevre- 
nac, watching  her  face.  The  girl  laughed  and  put 
the  letter  in  her  pocket.  She  did  not  say  who 
it  was  from,  and  her  husband  seemed  to  have  no 
curiosity  in  the  matter. 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  31 

Later  at  dinner  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones  noticed 
how  pale  she  was.  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  noticed 
the  change  in  her  too. 

"  You  look  tired,"  he  slid.  "  Do  not  work  too 
hard." 

"  I  have  not  written  a  line  all  day,"  said  the 
girl. 

"  You  are  not  as  bright  this  evening  as  usual. 
Nothing  has  worried  you,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Madame  de  Sevrenac. 

Maurice  de  Sevrenac  pressed  her  hands  ;  per- 
haps he  detained  her  a  moment  longer  than  usual 
as  he  bade  her  good-night.  The  girl  was  nervous 
and  tired,  he  thought.  Willingly  she  hurried 
away  to  her  own  room  to  her  own  thoughts. 

The  next  morning  she  rose  late.  Her  head  was 
aching,  she  said.  Later,  when  she  picked  up  her 
pen  to  write,  her  ideas  were  too  confused,  too  dis- 
turbed, to  make  clear  sense. 

"To-day  I  shall  take  a  rest,"  she  thought.  So 
she  put  away  her  pen  and  ink,  she  folded  up  her 
papers.  It  was  the  first  time  her  mind  had  showed 
fatigue,  the  first  time  her  talent  had  failed  her.  I 
shall  be  better  to-morrow,  she  thought. 

To-morrow  came,  but  Madame  de  Sevrenac  was 


32  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

no  better.  She  tried  to  read  over  one  of  her  ear- 
lier stories,  but  her  head  grew  weary  very  soon. 
She  ordered  her  coupe  and  went  out  for  a  drive. 
In  passing  down  the  Champs-£lys6es  she  saw  Mr. 
Sebastian  Jones  walking  on  in  front.  She  leaned 
back  in  her  carriage  so  that  he  could  not  see  her 
face.  The  girl's  heart  beat  fast  as  she  watched 
his  fine  figure,  his  graceful  walk. 

"  How  handsome  he  looks  ! "  she  murmured. 
"  How  different  from  other  men  !  " 

When  Madame  de  Sevrenac  returned  to  her 
own  home  she  felt  strangely  alone.  She  took 
from  her  pocket  the  letter  which  she  had  been  so 
careful  to  conceal.  Now  with  burning  cheeks  she 
re-read  the  contents.  The  writing  was  unfamiliar 
to  her,  the  composition  strange. 

"  How  dare  he  send  me  this  !  "  she  cried.  The 
words  were  in  praise  of  her  book,  encouragement 
of  her  talent.  It  was  evident  that  the  writer  was 
greatly  interested  in  the  gifted  young  authoress. 
No  signature,  no  name,  disclosed  who  he  might  be. 
The  letter  was  certainly  an  unusual  one.  Madame-i 
de  Sevr6nac  felt  justly  indignant  that  it  should 
have  been  addressed  to  her.  Perhaps  her  husband 
could  arrange  to  make  some  answer  to  it  ?  But" 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  33 

how  show  it  to  him,  how  tell  him  of  the  audacity 
of  the  writer  ?  Had  he  not  already  warned  her 
of  the  danger  to  her  position  and  her  pride  ?  the 
mistake  in  making  a  public  character  of  his 
name  and  hers  ?  Well  could  she  picture  his 
wrath,  his  anger,  at  this  unfortunate  circum- 
stance. 

Then,  too,  Elofsa  had  become  attached  to  the 
young  American.  Had  he  not  been  sympathetic, 
had  he  not  been  kind  to  her?  She  put  the  let- 
ter back  in  her  pocket.  No,  this  time  she  would 
forgive  the  insult,  but  the  next  time  —  the  girl 
grew  red,  then  white  —  there  could  be  no  next 
time  !  Surely  this  would  end  her  annoyance,  her 
fears  !  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones  must  know  too  well 
to  repeat  his  foolish  venture  ! 

Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  invited  his  friend  to 
dinner  the  next  evening.  But  the  young  wife 
pleaded  a  headache. 

"  You    do  not   look    ill    to-day,"  said  Maurice. 

"  But  I  am  too  weary.  I  cannot  entertain  your 
.juest,  Maurice.  My  sister  will  stay  at  home  and 
take  my  place." 

"  No  one  can  take  your  place,  Elo'fsa,"  said  her 
husband.  He  took  her  hands  and  pressed  them 


34  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

tenderly  in  his ;  his  affection  touched  her.  She 
leaned  her  head  against  his  arm. 

"  Maurice,"  she  began. 

"  Elolsa  ? "  he  replied. 

"  I  do  not  feel  well  nowadays."  He  raised  her 
face  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  fear  your  work  has  been  too  constant,"  he 
said. 

She  flushed. 

"  No,  no,  Maurice  ;  I  have  not  written  lately." 

"  Too  tired  to  think  out  your  plots  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  too  tired  —  too  tired  to  accomplish  any- 
thing." 

She  hid  her  eyes  and  quickly  brushed  away  a 
tear. 

"You  must  cheer  up,  my  dear,"  Monsieur  de 
Sevrenac  spoke  formally ;  his  wife  felt  strangely 
disappointed  at  the  stiffness  of  his  manner.  It 
seemed  impossible  for  the  Frenchman  to  sym- 
pathize with  any  one,  she  thought.  She  withdrew 
her  hands  from  his  and  moved  away ;  how  could 
this  cold,  proud  man  understand  her  trouble  ? 
She  became  afraid  of  the  strong  temptation  within 
her  to  tell  him  everything.  Was  he  not  too  stern, 
too  difficult,  to  forgive  the  writer  of  that  letter? 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  35 

She  shuddered  when  she  thought  of  Sebastian 
facing  him  in  his  wrath  ;  what  could  he  say, 
how  excuse  himself  before  the  indignation  of  his 
friend  ? 

Madame  de  Sevre"nac  passed  a  quiet  evening 
in  her  room.  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  brought 
her  messages  of  interest,  expressions  of  sym- 
pathy from  his  young  friend. 

"  Sebastian  asked  if  you  would  soon  be  well  ; 
he  hopes  to  call  upon  you  to-morrow  afternoon. 
I  promised  you  would  see  him ;  of  course  you 
will  remain  at  home  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured ;  "  wait  until 
to-morrow  comes." 

"We  missed  you  greatly,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Sevrenac.  Madame  de  Sevrenac  was  silent ;  she 
was  thinking  of  the  letter.  If  another  came  how 
hide  it  from  her  husband  ? 


The  next  morning  another  anonymous  letter 
did  come  to  Madame  de  Sevrenac ;  it  criticised 
her  forthcoming  book.  "She  worked  too  fast, 
her  talent  could  not  stand  the  mental  strain." 


36  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

She  was  much  excited  by  the  warning,  fearful 
of  what  the  writer  might  say  next. 

"  You  will  receive  the  American  when  he  comes 
this  afternoon,  Eloi'sa,"  said  her  husband  in  parting 
from  her,  after  their  caftin  the  breakfast  room. 

"  Since  you  wish  it,  I  shall  remain  at  home," 
replied  the  young  wife  ;  she  felt  sorry  for  her 
husband  as  she  watched  him  from  the  window. 
He  was  always  very  kind  ;  how  could  she  have 
the  heart  to  deceive  him  ?  The  girl  was  so  miser- 
able all  the  morning  that  when  afternoon  came 
her  nerves  were  quite  unstrung. 

Later,  when  the  mail  was  brought  to  her,  a  pre- 
sentiment came  over  her.  Sebastian  had  written 
to  her  again  !  Quickly  she  turned  over  her  en- 
velopes :  yes,  here  before  her  eyes  lay  the  dreaded 
writing !  She  sat  down  at  her  desk  and  con- 
trolled her  emotion  well.  With  angry  gaze  she 
read  this  third  message ;  it  was  but  a  renewal  of 
the  first  letter,  written  in  much  the  same  strain, 
complimenting  her  genius,  advising  the  publica- 
tion of  another  book.  What  could  it  mean  ?  The 
girl  felt  sick  and  weary ;  the  contradictions  were 
most  annoying  to  the  authoress. 

"  Why  must  he  torment  me  thus  !  "  she  cried. 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  37 

When  Mr.  Jones  was  announced  he  found 
Madame  de  Sevrenac  seated  before  the  window, 
a  piece  of  fancy-work  in  her  lap.  His  face  bright- 
ened as  she  spoke  to  him. 

"  Not  writing  to-day  ?  "  he  asked  pleasantly. 

"  I  have  not  written  for  some  time." 

"  Surely  you  do  not  dream  of  renouncing  your 
talent  ? " 

"  My  talent  has  renounced  me  ;  I  can  write  no 
more." 

"  Write  no  more  !  "  cried  the  American. 

"  My  brain  refuses  to  work  for  me." 

"  Such  talent  as  yours  could  not  disappear  so  sud- 
denly. Give  yourself  time,  Madame  de  Sevrenac, 
and  all  may  go  well." 

He  spoke  with  so  much  kindness,  so  much 
concern,  that  she  was  touched,  astonished. 

"  I  have  grown  discouraged." 

"  Why  discouraged  ? "  asked  Sebastian. 

"  Because  I  am  so  disappointed  —  so  weary 
sometimes." 

"When  I  first  met  you  a  few  months  ago, 
you  were  filled  with  enthusiasm,  radiant  with  joy. 
What  has  changed  you  so  ? " 

"  Don't   ask   me."      Sebastian    picked   up   the 


38  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

corner  of  her  work  ;  quite  accidentally  he 
touched  her  hand  in  doing  so. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  ;  but  the  girl  had 
been  frightened  by  it.  She  saw  the  words  of  the 
letters  before  her.  Cold  grew  her  fingers  :  fast 
beat  her  heart. 

"  Mr.  Jones  !  "  she  cried. 

"  You  are  trembling,  you  are  ill,"  said  the 
American;  "let  me  get  you  something." 

"Yes  —  I  am  ill — wretched  —  unhappy." 

"  Tell  me  what  has  changed  you  so  ?  "  Sebas- 
tian's voice  was  very  gentle,  very  low.  "  Tell  me 
what  it  is  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tellyott  f  "  she  cried.  "  You  of  all 
people  !  " 

"  Why  should  you  not  tell  me  ?  I  am  well  able 
to  understand.  Are  we  not  both  young  ?  both 
Americans  ?  Come,  for  the  moment,  let  us  cast 
aside  our  formality,  our  fear  of  one  another.  Tell 
me  what  has  changed  you  ? " 

"  One  day,"  began  Elo'isa,  "  you  were  here  at 
the  time,  I  received  a  letter  —  a  very  impudent 
letter.  I  did  not  know  who  wrote  it,  who  sent  it. 
At  first  I  wanted  to  tell  Monsieur  de  Sevre"nac  — 
then  I  was  afraid.  The  more  I  thought  of  it  the 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  39 

more  frightened  I  became.  I  worried  by  day,  I 
worried  by  night.  I  longed  to  free  myself  of  the 
burden  of  such  a  thing.  Then  just  when  I  hoped 
I  was  beginning  to  forget,  beginning  to  grow 
stronger,  I  received  two  more  letters.  It  is 
dreadful,  it  is  hateful  to  me." 

Sebastian  grew  very  pale ;  he  half  closed  his 
drooping  lids ;  he  scarce  knew  what  to  say.  She 
noticed  it. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  told  me,"  he  said. 

"  If  it  ever  happens  again,  I  shall  tell  my  hus- 
band. He  will  settle  the  affair  for  me." 

"  I  would  tell  him  now,"  said  Sebastian. 
Madame  de  Sevrenac  opened  her  eyes  in  surprise. 
This  man  had  no  fear  then.  Did  he  think  the 
husband  would  forgive  him  because  he  was  his 
friend  ? 

"  You  astonish  me  !  "  she  said. 

"  Why  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Because  of  the  advice  you  give  me." 

"  It  is  the  best  I  know  of,"  he  answered.  "  Tell 
your  husband  this  very  day.  It  will  relieve  your 
mind  to  give  your  trouble  up  to  him." 

"  And  what  if  he  accuses  some  one  wrongly  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  is  too  wise  for  that." 


40  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

Then  Sebastian  rose  and  took  his  leave.  Madame 
de  Sevre"nac  sat  still.  After  he  had  gone  she 
thought  of  many  things.  She  was  more  confident 
of  herself  now,  more  content  in  her  mind. 

She  felt  that  she  had  made  a  bold  stroke  in 
telling  Sebastian  about  the  letters.  But  little  by 
little  she  began  to  feel  sure  that  Sebastian  had 
written  them.  As  she  had  threatened  to  speak  to 
Monsieur  de  Sevrenac,  he  would  not  dare  to  send 
her  any  more. 

Madame  de  Sevrenac  soon  grew  stronger ;  the 
desire  to  write  gradually  came  back  to  the  young 
authoress.  If  she  were  more  easily  tired,  more 
easily  discouraged,  she  did  not  show  it.  She 
persevered  nobly  with  her  work. 

One  day  Sebastian  Jones  offered  to  read  her 
manuscript  to  her.  She  hesitated  before  giving  it 
to  him.  But  at  length  his  request  was  so  urgent, 
and  her  desire  so  strong  for  his  criticism,  that  she 
handed  him  her  work.  "  What  do  you  think  of 
it,  please  ? "  said  the  girl,  flushing  with  anticipa- 
tion. 

"  I  don't  like  the  story,"  said  the  American. 

"  You  don't  like  the  story ! "  Madame  de 
Sevrenac  could  not  hide  her  disappointment. 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  4* 

"  No,"  repeated  Sebastian.  "  I  don't  like  the 
story.  It  is  not  written  in  your  usual  brisk  style." 

"  But  I  have  taken  great  pains  over  it,"  cried 
the  authoress. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  it  ? " 

"To  send  it  to  a  magazine." 

"  Don't  send  it,"  said  Sebastian  earnestly. 
"  Don't  send  it,  Madame  de  Sevrenac."  Eloi'sa 
showed  her  astonishment.  The  old,  nervous 
expression  came  back  into  her  eyes.  Her  hands 
trembled,  her  knees  shook.  Perhaps  Sebastian 
Jones  noticed  her  emotion,  for  he  smiled  kindly  at 
her. 

"  Put  away  your  writings  for  a  time,"  he  said. 
"  I  think  you  will  feel  stronger  if  you  do." 

"  Then  you  think  that  my  talent  has  fled  from 
me  ? "  she  cried.  "  You  think  that  I  can  no  longer 
live  in  the  joy  of  my  writings  ?  I  could  have 
borne  anything  but  this  !  "  She  pressed  her  hands 
together  in  her  misery,  her  disappointment. 

"  It  seems  very  hard  for  you,"  said  Sebastian. 
"  But  this  time  perhaps  you  will  be  guided  by  my 
advice." 

"  You  allude  to  the  letters  ! "  exclaimed  the 
authoress.  "  For  I  did  not  do  as  you  said." 


42  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sebastian  ;  "  I  allude  to  the  letters." 

"  I  could  not  tell  my  husband,  I  thought  it 
wiser  to  bear  my  troubles  alone." 

"  You  did  wrong." 

"  I  did  wrong !  Mr.  Jones,  I  beseech  you  tell 
me  what  you  know  of  those  letters." 

"  I  know  this  —  it  would  be  wiser  for  you  to 
tell  your  husband  that  you  have  received  them, 
and  that  you  resent  the  insult  to  your  name." 

"  B.ut  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  will  be  angry, 
mortified.  I  would  not  like  him  to  realize  the 
danger  of  my  position  as  an  authoress.  It  would 
be  no  easy  matter  now  for  me  to  convince  my 
husband  that  this  is  a  fitting  role  for  his  wife. 
If  I  told  him  this  circumstance,  he  would  deny  me 
the  dearest  interest  of  my  life  !  " 

"  I  can  see  how  truly  you  love  your  work  ;  it  is 
all  in  all  to  you.  But  in  time  your  husband  might 
allow  you  to  resume  your  writing.  In  any  event, 
let  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  decide  the  matter  for 
you  ;  he  knows  best  about  such  things." 

Madame  de  Sevrenac  sat  silent;  she  saw  the 
American  looking  at  her  in  his  earnest  fashion. 
Presently  she  said,  "  I  will  take  your  advice." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  American,  holding  out 


A    WOMAN'S   TALE  XT.  43 

his  hand  for  good-by.  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones  did 
not  stay  to  dinner  that  evening. 

When  the  Frenchman  came  home  that  night  he 
saw  his  wife  was  much  excited.  The  old,  nervous 
manner  had  returned,  her  eyes  glittered,  her 
hands  shook.  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  seemed 
much  concerned  about  his  young  wife.  He 
begged  her  to  rest  quietly  and  not  go  out  that 
evening.  She  did  so.  Eloi'sa  had  no  heart  for 
gayety  just  then. 

In  vain  she  waited  to  begin  her  conversation 
with  the  proud,  stern  man.  How  plead  for  the 
forgiveness  which  she  wanted  for  his  friend  ? 

Twice  the  girl  attempted  to  speak,  twice  her 
lips  parted,  but  no  sound  came  forth. 

"  Maurice,"  she  began. 

"  I  am  here,"  replied  her  husband,  taking  his 
cigar  from  his  mouth. 

"  Maurice." 

"  What  is  it,  Elo'fsa  ?  "  Her  heart  was  beating 
fast. 

"  Maurice,  do  you  think  we  shall  go  away  from 
Paris  this  summer  ? " 

"  Go  away  from  Paris !  What  has  made  you 
think  about  summer  now  ?  It  is  only  early  spring." 


44  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl,  her  cheeks  flush- 
ing. Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  noticed  his  wife's 
manner.  He  saw  her  color  come  and  go.  Walk- 
ing to  the  book-case  he  selected  a  volume  from  his 
costly  collection,  and,  drawing  a  chair  near  the  lamp, 
sat  down  to  read.  Madame  de  Sevrenac  watched 
the  expression  of  his  face.  His  face  was  always 
stern,  intelligent,  and  grave.  It  was  very  difficult, 
but  Eloi'sa  thought  she  would  try  again. 

"  Maurice." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  Frenchman,  putting  down 
his  book.  His  manners  were  always  good. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  —  something 
to  say  to  you  just  now  !  " 

"  Something  to  say  to  me  ? "  There  was  a 
shade  of  astonishment  in  his  voice. 

"Yes  —  but  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  begin." 
She  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  drew  her 
letters  out. 

"  I  received  these  by  the  mail  —  take  them, 
Maurice  — keep  them.  Don't  ever  let  me  see 
them  again."  She  pressed  the  unknown  letters 
into  his  hands. 

"  What  are  these  letters,  Eloi'sa?" 

"I  don't  know,"  faltered  the   girl.     "I   don't 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  45 

want  to  know  —  put  them  out  of  sight,  Maurice. 
I  believe  they  will  drive  me  mad  !  "  Monsieur  de 
Sevre"nac  turned  the  envelopes  over  in  his  hand, 
slowly  opened  and  read  their  contents. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  these  —  these  letters 
are  addressed  to  you  ?  —  to  you  !  —  my  wife  !  " 

"Maurice,  do  not  look  so  astonished,  I  pray 
you !  It  is  not  my  fault.  I  never  dreamed  of 
getting  such  things."  She  saw  the  dark  look  in 
the  Frenchman's  eyes. 

"  You  received  these  impudent  letters,  and 
never  told  me  ? " 

"  It  was  to  spare  you  —  to  save  him  —  that  I 
did  not  tell  you,  Maurice." 

"  To  spare  me  !  How  do  you  spare  me  by  this 
deceit  ?  To  save  him  !  Who  is  he  that  you  wish 
to  save  ?  Who  has  dared  so  to  presume  upon 
your  talent  and  your  work  ?  " 

"  Maurice ! " 

"  To  whom  have  you  been  talking  about  your 
writings  ?  To  whom  have  you  confided  the  work- 
ings of  your  mind  ?  Speak,  EloTsa !  I  am  your 
husband  ;  I  must  know  the  truth." 

"  I  pray  you  pardon  my  enthusiasm.  I  never 
realized  the  harm  I  did  "  — 


46  A    WOMAN^S   TALENT. 

"  At  this  moment  I  ask  the  name  of  the  man 
with  whom  you  have  become  so  intimate,  so  con- 
fiding on  the  subject  of  your  work?"  A  ring  of 
sarcasm  sounded  in  his  voice.  Monsieur  de 
Sevrenac  trembled  with  anger.  His  eyes  flashed 
with  scorn. 

"  I  have  no  intimate  friends  but  those  you  have 
chosen  for  me,"  said  Madame  de  Sevrenac.. 

"  Ah  —  now  I  see  it  all !  It  is  my  friend  who 
has  so  dared  to  insult  my  wife !  It  is  my  friend, 
the  handsome,  the  charming  American,  who  has 
inflicted  his  opinions  and  attentions  upon  you  !  " 

"  Maurice,  I  pray  you  forgive  him.  His  letters 
have  done  no  harm  to  me ;  now  I  have  given 
them  to  you  —  with  his  thoughtlessness  I  pray 
you  have  patience  —  with  me  I  pray  you  have  con- 
sideration. Remember  how  I  love  my  work." 

"  Have  patience ! "  laughed  the  Frenchman. 
"  Patience  with  this  American  in  his  insolence,  in 
his  audacity  ?  How  can  the  people  of  your  nation 
be  called  civilized,  be  called  Christians,  be  called 
gentlemen  —  when  they  lack  all  knowledge  of 
what  the  words  mean  ?  " 

"Because  of  all  this  —  because  we  are  Ameri- 
cans so  must  we  be  pardoned  for  our  wrongs." 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  47 

Madame  de  Sevrenac  stood  erect  before  her  hus- 
band. He  watched  her  eagerly  while  she  spoke. 
He  saw  her  bright  eyes,  her  nervous  lips.  He 
saw  that  she  was  beautiful. 

"  Eloi'sa,"  he  said,  "  come  to  me."  She  went 
nearer  to  him.  Gently  he  took  her  in  his  arms, 
gently  he  kissed  her,  gently  he  drove  away  her 
fears. 

"  If  this  happens  again,  I  cannot  forgive  it ; 
but  now  —  I  love  you  too  much  to  cause  you  any 
sufferings,  I  shall  forgive  everything  —  I  shall 
forget  all." 

For  a  time  the  days  went  quickly  for  Madame 
de  Sevrenac.  The  weight  of  her  secret  had  been 
taken  from  her  mind.  The  brightness  came  back 
to  her  eyes,  the  happiness  to  her  smile.  She  was 
herself  again. 

Enthusiastic  over  her  writing,  contented  in  her 
work.  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  was  kind  and  gra- 
cious in  his  manner.  Truly  he  loved  his  wife. 

Mr.  Sebastian  Jones  had  not  called  at  the  house 
since  his  last  interview  with  the  young  authoress. 
Elo'fsa  missed  him  sometimes,  but  she  felt  they 
could  never  be  on  the  same  pleasant  terms  with 
each  other  again.  It  was  better  he  should  stay 


48  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

away.  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac  was  most  dignified 
in  the  whole  matter.  The  American's  name 
never  passed  his  lips.  Madame  de  Sevrenac  felt 
this  and  was  glad  of  it.  Fully  she  realized  her 
husband's  magnanimity. 

But  the  authoress  was  not  allowed  a  long  sea- 
son of  peace.  She  received  another  of  those 
much  dreaded  letters.  As  it  lay  in  her  hand  she 
knew  why  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones  had  absented  him- 
self from  the  Frenchman's  house. 

"  I  despise  you  !  "  she  murmured.  "  My  hus- 
band has  been  too  generous,  too  lenient  in  his 
forgiveness  of  your  acts."  Madame  de  Sevrenac 
put  away  the  letter.  She  would  speak  to  Mr. 
Jones  herself.  Perhaps  she  could  end  the  matter. 
But  Mr.  Jones  wisely  gave  her  no  opportunity. 
He  did  not  call  upon  her  again. 

One  day  Madame  de  Sevrenac  went  to  the 
Salon.  She  wanted  to  see  the  pictures.  She 
asked  her  husband  to  accompany  her  ;  he  promised 
to  join  her  later. 

The  exhibition  was  not  crowded  that  afternoon, 
and  the  girl  had  an  excellent  opportunity  to  see 
the  paintings. 

She  was  standing  before  a  well-colored  portrait ; 


A    WOMAN'S  TALENT.  49 

she  advanced  a  step  to  see  the  features  more 
closely.  The  sh*adow  of  a  man  was  cast  before 
her.  He  raised  his  hat,  he  bowed.  She  started, 
and  looking  up  saw  Mr.  Sebastian  Jones  at  her  side. 
In  a  moment  she  resolved  how  she  would  meet  him. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  he  said.  He  held  out  his 
hand  to  her. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  replied  Madame  de  Sevrenac, 
keeping  her  hands  upon  her  catalogue. 

"  You  are  interested  in  the  pictures  ? "  asked 
Mr.  Jones,  flushing,  as  he  saw  her  distinct  refusal 
of  his  greeting. 

"  I  am  always  interested  in  art,"  said  Madame 
de  Sevrenac. 

"  You  are  alone  ? "  asked  the  American. 

"I  am  waiting  for  my  husband."  She  looked 
straight  at  the  young  man. 

"  I  hope  he  joins  you  soon,  for  I  have  but  a  few 
moments  longer  here  this  afternoon,  and  I  would 
like  to  see  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac." 

"  He  will  come  shortly,"  said  the  authoress. 

"  You  have  both  been  quite  well  during  my 
absence  ? " 

"  Quite  well." 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  in  my  old  haunts  again.  I  am 
glad  to  return  to  Paris." 


50  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

"  You  have  been  away !  "  exclaimed  Madame  de 
Sevre"nac. 

"  I  have  been  to  Switzerland."  The  American 
must  have  noticed  the  surprise  in  her  face.  But 
she  controlled  her  expression  in  a  moment. 

"  You  enjoyed  the  mountains  ? " 

"Greatly,  thank  you."  Then  Madam  de 
Sevre"nac  moved  on. 

"  May  I  accompany  you  ? "  asked  Sebastian. 

"  As  you  choose." 

"  I  have  but  one  choice,"  said  Sebastian.  "  I 
shall  go  with  you.  I  want  to  hear  your  opinions 
of  these  paintings."  He  smiled  at  her  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  am  a  poor  judge  of  this  work,"  said  Madame 
de  Sevrenac. 

"  Because  it  is  not  your  mttier"  said  Sebastian, 
laughing. 

"  I  would  rather  not  discuss  my  work  with  yoii, 
Mr.  Jones." 

"You  must  not  think  that  my  absence  has 
made  me  forgetful  of  your  talent." 

"  I  only  wish  it  had  made  you  forgetful  of  my 
talent  —  forgetful  of  me." 

The  color  fled  from  Madame  de  Sevre"nac's  face. 
Her  heart  beat  fast.  Her  breath  came  short. 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  51 

"  Why  should  you  wish  such  a  thing  ? " 

"Because — because,  Mr.  Jones,  I  can  bear  it 
no  longer  " 

"  Bear  it  no  longer  !     What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  I  mean  —  I  mean  your  letters.  I  cannot  bear 
your  impertinence  —  your  insolence  any  longer," 
exclaimed  the  girl.  "  I  spoke  to  my  husband  —  I 
begged  your  forgiveness  of  him.  He  is  good, 
noble,  and  true.  He  forgave  you,  spared  you  !  " 

"  He  forgave  me,  Madame  de  Sevr6nac,  you 
know  not  what  you  say  !  He  spared  me  !  " 

"  Yes,"  gasped  the  girl. 

"  You  believe  that  I  wrote  those  letters  ?  You 
believed  that  /  sent  them  to  tease,  to  torment 
you  ? " 

"  Mr.  Jones,  it  is  useless  to  deny  them  now." 

"  I  do  deny  them.  He  must  be  mad.  If  he 
were  before  me  now,  loudly  would  I  tell  him 
this  "  - 

"Hush!"  cried  the  girl,  "for  he  is  coming." 
Monsieur  de  Sevre"nac  was  looking  for  his  wife. 
He  paled  a  little  when  he  saw  her  standing  near 
the  American.  Perhaps  he  did  not  notice  their 
expressions,  for  he  came  quickly  forward,  his 
hand  outstretched  in  token  of  greeting. 


52  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

"  This  is  an  unlooked-for  pleasure." 

"  Sir  !  "  cried  Sebastian,  white  with  anger. 

"An  unlooked-for  pleasure,"  repeated  the 
Frenchman,  moving  near  his  wife. 

"  An  unlooked-for  opportunity,  you  mean,"  said 
Sebastian.  "  I  would  like  to  speak  a  few  words 
with  you  now  in  the  presence  of  your  wife." 

"It  is  unsuited  to  Madame  de  Sevrenac  to 
listen  to  anything  you  may  have  to  say  to  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  replied  the  American. 
"  What  I  have  to  say  to  you  concerns  Madame  de 
Sevrenac." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  Frenchman. 

"  Make  your  apology  to  her  —  to  me,  sir,  for 
what  you  have  done  !  " 

"  For  what  I  have  done  ?  I  do  not  know  what 
I  have  done." 

"  Monsieur  de  Sevrenac,  you  have  written 
letters  to  your  wife.  You  have  allowed  her  to 
accuse  me  of  them  —  to  believe  me  worthy  of  so 
cowardly  a  trick.  Well  have  you  planned  your 
scheme,  well  have  you  executed  your  actions. 
But  your  wrongs  have  found  you  out." 

"  Maurice,"  cried  Madame  de  Sevrenac,  "  you 
wrote  those  letters  —  you  deceived  me?" 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  53 

"Mr.  Sebastian  Jones  says  that  I  did."  The 
Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  air  of 
unconcern  ;  but  Elo'fsa  saw  how  pale  he  was,  and 
that  his  hands  were  trembling. 

"  Confess  the  truth,"  cried  the  American. 

"  How  can  I  confess  that  of  which  I  am  inno- 
cent ? ' ' 

"  You  can  unless  you  are  a  maniac,  unless  you 
are  a  madman,"  cried  Sebastian. 

"  I  see  that  you  are  my  judge,"  said  Monsieur 
de  Sevre"nac  with  scorn. 

"  Confess  that  you  confided  in  me  your  scheme. 
You  exacted  a  promise  from  me  to  keep  your 
secret." 

"  And  you  have  proved  yourself  a  friend  in- 
deed," said  the  Frenchman  ;  "  a  friend  who  keeps 
his  word." 

"  I  broke  my  word  in  self-defence." 

"  How  brave  you  were ! "  said  Monsieur  de 
Sevrenac.  "And  you,  EloTsa,  with  your  foolish 
fancies,  your  morbid  brain,  have  you  been  con- 
vinced of  my  wrongs  ? " 

"  Maurice,"  cried  his  wife,  "  I  thought  you 
loved  me  ! " 

"  So  I  do  —  so  I  do,"  muttered  the  Frenchman, 


54  A    WOMAN'S   TALENT. 

as  he  raised  his  hat  and  left  the  two  Americans 
standing  side  by  side. 

The  girl  stood  motionless,  looking  after  her 
husband's  retreating  figure. 

"  Madame  de  Sevr^nac,  it  is  all  out  now,"  said 
Sebastian,  "  and  I  am  thankful  for  it.  Day  by 
day  I  watched  your  sufferings.  Hour  by  hour  I 
longed  for  your  release.  Now  —  now  can  you  not 
begin  from  this  moment  a  new,  a  happier  life? 
Away  from  Paris,  away  from  these  memories,  you 
will  find  your  talent,  your  great  ambitions,  return- 
ing to  you.  In  America  we  can  work  together  — 
you  will  have  a  wider  field,  a  nobler  end  before 
you  in  your  writings." 

"  Don't,  don't  tell  me  these  things,"  cried  the 
girl.  °  My  work  is  done  forever.  My  talent  has 
been  crushed." 

"  It  must  revive  again.  Your  work  is  life  to 
you.  You  will  be  quite  happy  in  it,  I  am  sure. 
Without  it  your  spirit  will  die." 

"No,  no,  I  should  have  no  heart  for  anything. 
My  duty  is  with  him.  My  life  is  with  him.  My 
future  is  his.  My  name  is  his.  I  have  promised 
all  to  him;  I  must  live  on.  I  must  forgive  all 
things  just  as  I  would  hope  for  others  to  forgive 


A    WOMAN'S   TALENT.  55 

me,  were  I  weak  enough  to  yield  to  wrong  this 
day." 

"  Can  a  woman  love  such  a  man  ?  I  should 
suppose  it  impossible." 

"  A  woman  must  bear  from  her  husband  what 
she  would  resent  from  her  friend.  I  have  prom- 
ised. I  must  accept  this  disappointment ;  it  has 
fallen  to  my  share." 

Through  the  open  window  the  sun  came  stream- 
ing; it  fell  upon  the  wife's  pale  face,  upon  her 
dark  hair.  She  was  beautiful  in  her  nobleness,  in 
her  strength. 

The  American  was  astonished,  disheartened ; 
but  the  young  wife  had  won  his  admiration,  his 
respect  in  this  —  her  first  struggle,  her  first  real 
sacrifice. 


What  does  it  matter  now  who  wrote  the  letters, 
who  inflicted  the  sufferings  on  the  young  wife  ? 
The  object  of  the  husband  was  accomplished,  his 
end  reached.  The  authoress  lost  her  enthusiasm, 
resigned  her  talent,  laid  down  her  pen  forever. 


PAUL. 


PAUL. 


I  KNOW  not  why  I  start  to  write  a  sketch  of  my 
own  experience,  a  sketch  of  a  certain  period  of  my 
own  life  But  I  do  so ;  I  do  so  this  very  hour ! 
Perhaps  I  am  prompted  to  warn  other  young  men, 
to  give  them  an  insight  into  character,  into  life. 
Be  lenient  with  my  expressions.  Be  lenient  with 
my  description,  I  pray  you.  I  have  never 
attempted  to  write  for  publication,  for  print  until 
this  day.  Do  I  then,  with  this  confession,  with 
this  recommendation  of  my  weak  powers,  excite 
you  to  anticipate  my  story,  to  persevere  with  it  to 
the  end  ?  I  doubt  it  very  much  indeed. 

Beginning  these  pages  you  will  read  carefully ; 
you  will  criticise  fully.  I  am  glad  of  it.  It  is 
well  for  me  so  to  realize  the  feebleness  of  my 
efforts,  so  to  end  the  disappointment  of  my  results. 

But  my  story  is  short ;  my  pages  are  few. 

I  married  early  in  life ;  my  wife  died  three 
59 


60  PA  UL. 

years  after  our  union.  Then  my  happiness  ended, 
my  loneliness  began. 

The  child  was  a  boy.  What  should  I  have 
done  with  a  girl  ?  After  my  wife  died  my  maiden 
sister  came  to  live  with  me.  I  don't  quite  know 
how  she  managed  to  do  this  ;  I  am  confident  I 
never  invited  her.  She  understood  as  much 
about  children  as  I  did,  which  practically  means 
having  no  knowledge  of  them  whatever. 

But  somehow  that  boy  grew.  Somehow  that 
boy  grew  to  be  a  very  fine  boy.  My  sister 
declared  it  was  her  bringing  up,  while  I  inwardly 
decided  it  was  mine. 

We  three  lived  together,  a  strange  household,  a 
strange  existence.  My  sister  was  content.  Paul 
was  content.  Why  should  I  not  be  content  also  ? 

I  went  out  very  little.  I  occupied  myself  con- 
stantly. A  physician  is  always  busy,  always 
active.  My  profession  was  my  life. 

At  times  my  evenings  dragged  when  my  sister 
stitched  and  sewed,  and  sewed  and  stitched,  and 
Paul  was  dreaming  in  his  bed.  But  I  knew  not 
how  to  shorten,  how  to  change  them.  I  had  plans 
for  my  boy.  For  myself  I  had  none.  When  Paul 
was  old  enough  I  would  exert  myself  for  him,  I 


PAUL.  6 1 

would  cast  myself  aside  in  his  cause,  in  his  success. 
I  would  remember  only  him  ;  I  would  live  only 
for  him ;  I  would  love  only  him.  His  failures 
would  be  my  failures,  his  disappointments  my 
disappointments,  his  pleasures  my  interests,  his 
joys  my  delights.  Thus  I  watched  the  boy  from 
hour  to  hour ;  from  day  to  day.  He  was  affec- 
tionate in  his  disposition,  manly  in  his  ways.  He 
was  bright,  he  was  happy.  Sometimes  he  was 
boisterous,  sometimes  he  was  bad.  I  was  glad  of 
this  :  I  do  not  like  good  children.  Seldom  do 
they  turn  out  well.  Generosity  and  honesty  are 
the  result  of  a  strong  mind,  a  healthy  body.  A 
good  boy  is  too  morose,  too  serious,  I  think.  I 
was  satisfied  with  Paul.  I  thought  him  handsome. 
I  thought  him  clever. 

Then,  as  the  years  went  by,  I  saw  he  needed 
tuition.  I  saw  he  needed  care.  My  sister  did  all 
she  could  ;  she  lavished  her  money  in  toys,  her 
affection  in  kisses  for  the  young  boy.  But  soon  I 
realized  her  system  was  a  failure,  her  idolatry  a 
mistake.  I  was  so  much  away  from  home  in  the 
daytime  that  I  had  scarcely  the  opportunity  to 
oversee  the  routine,  the  daily  life  of  my  little  boy. 
Celia  and  I  talked  it  over  one  evening.  The  good 


62  PA  UL. 

woman  protested  against  strangers,  teachers,  and 
schools.  "  Paul  is  so  young,"  she  cried.  "  Pray, 
Philip,  do  not  send  him  far  from  home."  In  her 
argument  she  was  right.  Paul  should  remain 
with  us  for  a  short  time  still.  Then  I  decided 
the  matter.  Paul  should  have  a  companion,  a 
governess.  My  sister,  kind  soul,  was  horrified. 
"  You  will  marry  her,  Philip,"  she  cried.  "  You 
will  marry  her  before  the  year  is  out." 

"  I  have  not  yet  even  seen  her,"  I  replied ; 
"  and  since  you  warn  me,  I  shall  guard  against 
your  fears."  Little  did  Celia  know  me.  Little 
did  she  read  my  thoughts. 

I  advertised.  I  waited  daily  for  the  governess. 
"The  most  foolish  plan  I  could  devise.  I  should 
have  private  recommendations.  It  would  never 
do  to  advertise  ! "  But  I  knew  best.  I  wanted 
no  reduced  lady,  no  touchy  person  to  destroy  my 
home.  I  wanted  a  good  teacher,  a  good  com- 
panion for  my  child. 

At  length  the  answer  came.  I  made  the 
appointment  by  letter  with  the  governess.  Her 
style,  her  writing,  her  expressions  had  pleased  me. 
It  was  quite  unnecessary  that  I  should  see  if  she 
were  tall  or  short,  plain  or  beautiful. 


PA  UL.  63 

On  Monday  she  arrived.  I  waited  in  my  office 
for  her  name  to  be  announced. 

Paul  came  and  begged  that  he  might  sit  quite 
still  and  see  his  governess.  The  boy  was  seated 
near  me  in  the  large  leather-cushioned  chair.  His 
bright  curls  shone  like  golden  threads  in  the 
morning  light,  his  eyes  beamed  like  precious 
stones  of  deep  blue  color.  I  had  given  him  a 
book  and  bade  him  read  in  silence.  It  was  against 
my  rule  that  he  should  come  into  my  office  at 
those  hours. 

A  ring  of  the  front  bell,  a  question,  a  name,  and 
Mademoiselle  Baron  stood  before  me. 

I  spoke  but  little  French.  I  was  glad  to  hear 
the  girl  speak  English.  Was  she  beautiful  ?  No. 
Was  she  plain  ?  No.  She  was  interesting.  I 
found  myself  watching  her  face,  her  features,  her 
gestures,  her  movements.  She  smiled  pleasantly 
at  the  boy.  He  rose,  at  my  prompting,  and  stood 
with  his  small  hand  stretched  out  to  greet  her. 
She  spoke  to  him  in  her  own  tongue,  but  Paul 
remained  silent.  "My  son  speaks  only  English," 
I  said,  "but  I  wish  him  to  learn  French.  I  wish 
him  to  speak  it  well."  The  girl  raised  her  eyes 
and  looked  at  me. 


64  PAUL. 

"  He  is  so  young,  he  will  soon  learn,"  she  said. 

"  Children  are  easier  to  teach  than  grown  peo- 
ple,"! replied,  smiling.  Then  I  rang  for  my  ser- 
vant. He  led  the  way  up-stairs  for  the  governess. 
As  I  resumed  my  work,  I  wrote  with  difficulty.  I 
was  inwardly  going  over  in  my  mind  my  sister's  first 
interview  with  the  young  stranger.  Celia  won't 
like  her ;  Celia  won't  approve  of  her,  I  thought. 
She  is  too  young,  too  attractive  for  this  house- 
hold. I  can  swear  to  that.  I  laughed  to  myself. 
I  enjoyed  the  joke ;  I  enjoyed  the  whole  incident 
greatly.  The  next  governess  Celia  will  insist  on 
engaging.  But  there  won't  be  a  next  one.  I 
shall  keep  this  one.  I  shall  keep  this  one  if  I 
can. 

I  went  out  soon  after  to  my  duties,  and  in  the 
rush  of  business,  in  the  excitement  of  cases,  I 
forgot  the  governess. 

It  was  not  until  my  return  that  evening  I 
realized  she  was  in  my  house,  she  was  the  com- 
panion to  my  boy. 

Already  they  seemed  friendly,  already  they 
seemed  on  good  terms. 

My  sister  was  very  silent  through  dinner^  very 
busy  after  it.  We  sat  around  the  large,  old- 


PA  UL.  65 

fashioned  fireplace  in  the  hall.  Paul  was  flushed, 
excited ;  he  brought  all  his  books  and  toys  to 
show  them  to  his  governess.  She  laughed  at  his 
enthusiasm,  she  laughed  at  his  childish  joy.  "He 
will  be  awake  all  night,"  said  his  aunt  crossly. 
His  aunt  was  right,  no  doubt.  The  stranger  did 
not  look  annoyed.  She  bore  the  criticism  well. 
The  girl  was  young,  but  she  had  refinement,  she 
had  tact.  After  a  while,  as  Paul  went  off  to  bed, 
he  kissed  his  aunt,  he  raised  his  head  to  kiss  the 
governess  ;  her  face  flushed,  as  she  bent  down 
over  his  fair  locks  and  gently  stroked  them  with 
her  hands. 

"  Good-night,"  she  murmured,  "  good-night." 
I  put  my  arms  around  my  boy  and  pressed  him  to 
my  heart. 

"Quickly  to  bed,"  I  said;  "you  are  up  late; 
hurry  all  you  can."  The  boy  laughed  and  said  he 
had  had  a  splendid  time  all  day.  Then  I  watched 
him  going  slowly  up  the  stairs  to  his  own  room. 
I  watched  his  little  figure  until  it  disappeared  from 
sight. 

Celia  stayed  up  later  than  usual  that  night. 
She  wanted  to  chaperon  the  governess,  I  saw. 
Mademoiselle  Baron  worked  at  a  piece  of  em- 


66  PA  UL. 

broidery.  I  noticed  the  dexterous  movement  of 
her  ringers,  the  quick  succession  of  her  stitches. 

"  You  sew  very  neatly,"  said  my  sister.  "  Will 
you  let  me  see  your  work  ?  "  She  rose  and  stood 
before  Celia.  "  Do  you  find  it  difficult  ?  "  she 
questioned. 

"  I  learned  to  embroider  long  ago,  so  it  is  easy 
to  me." 

"  You  are  fond  of  sewing  ? " 

"  Not  plain  sewing,"  said  the  girl. 

The  next  day  my  sister  rose  early.  She  asked 
me  if  I  knew  the  governess  was  called  Kathleen. 
I  replied  that  I  had  not  questioned  her  upon  her 
Christian  name. 

"  I  shall  call  her  Kate,"  declared  my  sister.  "  I 
never  could  tolerate  those  fancy  names."  So 
Kate  she  was  called,  and  Kate  she  remained. 

The  weeks  wore  on.  I  was  very  busy,  very 
active  in  my  work. 

It  was  pleasant  to  come  home  to  a  good  dinner, 
a  bright  fire,  a  young  companion.  I  began  to 
realize  the  change. 

One  day  my  sister  tried  to  question  me  about 
my  plans,  my  future — and  the  governess. 

"Do  you  intend  to  marry  her?"  she  asked. 


PA  UL.  67 

I  flushed  ;  my  face  was  red  with  anger. 

"Marry  her?"  I  cried.  "Why  should  I  marry 
her  ? " 

"  Because  you  are  in  love  with  her,"  said  my 
sister  promptly.  I  bit  my  lips. 

"  In  love  with  her ?"  I  murmured.  "It  cannot 
be." 

It  had  been  my  custom  to  go  often  to  the  opera, 
often  to  a  concert  when  the  music  was  good.  I 
went  much  more  frequently  before  the  governess 
came. 

Now  I  found  my  fireside  pleasant,  my  home 
sufficient.  Kate  would  sit  near  me,  her  eyes 
watching  my  child,  her  arms  caressing  my  boy. 
She  was  very  tender,  very  kind.  Sometimes  I 
would  wonder  if  she  were  quite  happy,  if  she 
always  meant  to  stay.  The  question  was  annoy- 
ing. I  put  it  quickly  from  me.  The  girl  seemed 
at  ease,  content  in  the  strange,  old-fashioned 
home.  Then  Paul  was  studying  well,  learning 
quickly,  she  said.  When  I  looked  at  my  sister  I 
was  thankful.  I  was  relieved.  In  spite  of  all  her 
fears  she  liked  the  governess.  I  complimented 
myself  on  our  good-fortune,  on  my  good  judgment 
in  the  matter.  If  the  governess  were  young,  she 
proved  well  fitted  to  her  place. 


68  PA  UL. 

In  my  profession  I  had  often  many  articles  to 
write.  It  occurred  to  me  to  ask  the  governess  to 
copy  some  of  them.  She  seemed  delighted  at  the 
plan.  So,  after  Paul  had  gone  to  bed  and  left  our 
family  party,  Kate  would  sit  at  the  table  near  my 
sister  and  copy  out  my  work.  She  wrote  neatly 
in  English.  With  few  mistakes  could  produce  her 
papers  for  my  inspection.  She  was  almost  too 
diligent,  I  thought. 

One  night  I  offered  her  tickets  for  a  concert, 
begging  her  to  take  some  friends  and  go.  She 
laughed  and  said  she  did  not  want  to  neglect  her 
duty  and  my  work.  In  vain  I  pleaded  with  her. 
At  length  I  thought  I  had  almost  persuaded  her, 
when  my  sister  joined  in  her  voice  and  said,  "  If 
Miss  Kate  prefers  her  duty,  Philip,  of  course  she 
knows  best.  You  should  not  urge  her  so  to  go." 
But  Kate  did  not  intend  to  yield ;  I  saw  it  by  her 
manner.  I  liked  her  determination,  I  liked  her 
character. 

I  was  confident  of  her  strength,  sure  of  her 
judgment.  She  was  the  proper  companion  for  my 
boy. 

One  evening,  as  we  worked  over  my  articles,  I 
raised  my  head  suddenly  from  my  writing  to  find 


PA  UL,  69 

Mademoiselle  Baron  watching  me.  She  colored 
as  her  eyes  met  mine.  Again  she  bent  her  gaze 
upon  her  papers.  I  thought  her  very  charming, 
very  taking  in  her  shyness,  in  her  maiden  ways. 
Later,  when  my  sister  left  the  room,  she  pushed 
her  writings  over  to  me. 

"  Are  they  quite  correct  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  have  made  some  mistake  just  here,"  I 
replied,  reading  the  sentence  in  fault  over  to  her. 
I  wondered  at  her  embarrassment,  at  her  ner- 
vousness. I  looked  into  her  face  ;  at  a  glance,  I 
saw  her  heart  was  beating  fast.  I  felt  she  had 
something  to  say  to  me ;  something  I  dreaded 
much  to  hear.  She  was  dissatisfied !  But  she 
only  spoke  about  my  work.  I  saw  she  changed 
her  mind.  I  looked  at  her  young  face,  her  bright 
eyes,  her  soft  hair.  I  admired  her  truly.  It  was 
then  like  a  sudden  inspiration,  a  sudden  longing, 
I  chanced  to  speak  to  her,  to  confide  in  her. 

"  Mademoiselle  "  I  began. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  throwing  back  her  head  and 
brushing  the  stray  locks  from  her  forehead. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will  allow  me  to  tell  you 
something  ? "  She  laughed  and  moved  her  pen  to 
her  other  hand.  I  saw  she  was  embarrassed.  At 


70  A  UL. 

first  I  had  not  thought  her  shy.  But  of  late  it 
had  increased  upon  her.  "  Do  you  give  me  per- 
mission?" I  continued,  as  I  found  she  remained 
silent.  She  nodded  and  turned  her  chair  near  the 
fire.  I  handed  her  a  screen  to  shield  her  eyes 
from  the  blaze. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  I,  "  what  I  have  to  say 
will  be  a  matter  of  a  few  words.  As  you  already 
know,  it  is  some  years  since  my  wife  died.  She 
left  a  son,  —  a  son  for  me  to  love,  to  cherish.  I 
have  done  my  duty  towards  my  charge  as  best 
I  can,  and  you  have  helped  me,  helped  me  very 
well.  About  twelve  months  ago,  before  I  ever 
heard  of  you,  before  you  ever  heard  of  me,  I  was 
called  in  consultation  to  see  a  gifted  singer,  a 
beautiful  woman,  a  widow.  I  thought  all  dreams 
of  love  had  passed  forever  from  me,  but  this 
gifted  woman,  this  successful  singer,  filled  my 
heart.  I  saw  her  again  and  again  in  a  professional 
way.  I  saw  her  many  times.  After  my  inter- 
course with  this  woman  I  would  return  to  my 
lonely  fireside,  to  my  empty  home,  oppressed  and 
desolate.  Our  conversations,  our  meetings,  be- 
came the  greatest  interests  of  the  days.  She  is 
beautiful,  she  is  clever. 


PAUL.  71 

"  I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  I  gave  her  a  ring. 
We  are  engaged.  The  months  go  on,  the  time  is 
passing  fast.  Our  wedding  has  never  yet  been 
fixed.  When  I  go  to  see  her  now,  I  feel  worried, 
I  feel  ashamed.  How  can  we  arrange  our  mar- 
riage ?  How  can  I  bring  a  singer  home  to  live 
with  my  sister,  to  live  with  my  boy  ?  "  In  my 
enthusiasm,  in  my  earnestness,  I  drew  nearer  to 
the  governess.  She  spoke  brokenly;  she  spoke 
slowly  in  answer  to  the  question. 

"  In  what  way  have  your  surroundings  changed 
in  the  twelve  months  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Your  sister 
is  the  same,  your  boy  is  the  same." 

"  It  must  be  I  ;  it.  must  be  I  who  have  changed. 
I  who  see  things  differently,"  I  cried.  "What 
shall  I  do  ?  What  can  a  man  do  when  his  word  is 
in  question  ? " 

"He  can  abide  by  it,  abide  by  it  to  the  end." 

"  Paul  is  growing  older,"  I  exclaimed.  "  Paul 
needs  careful  watching,  careful  teaching." 

"  Is  this  woman  then  so  ordinary  ?  "  asked  the 
governess. 

"  She  is  a  public  character.  She  is  a  singer," 
I  said. 

"  When  you  engaged  yourself  to  her  was  she 
not  a  singer  just  the  same  ?  " 


72  PA  UL. 

11  Yes."  I  turned  bitterly  away.  I  looked  with 
disappointment,  with  almost  anger,  at  the  fair 
young  face  beside  the  fire.  "  You  are  too  precise, 
too  particular  in  your  reasoning,"  I  said.  "  You 
cannot,  you  do  not,  understand." 

"  You  asked  my  opinion ;  I  give  it  to  you," 
replied  the  girl.  I  watched  her :  how  pale  her 
face  looked  in  spite  of  the  brightness  of  the 
fire! 

"  Mademoiselle,"  —  I  went  up  to  her,  I  took  her 
hands  in  mine,  —  "do  tell  me  honestly  what  you 
would  wish  to  have  me  do?"  She  lowered  her 
eyes,  she  trembled. 

"  As  a  gentleman,  you  should  marry  the  woman 
to  whom  you  are  engaged." 

"  Even  if  I  do  not  love  her  ?  " 

"You  loved  her  once;  that  should  suffice." 

"  It  does  not,"  I  said  ;  "  far  from  it." 

"  You  should  have  confessed  to  her  before  now, 
if  you  did  not  mean  to  bring  her  here  —  if  you 
were  ashamed  to  have  her  meet  your  sister, 
ashamed  to  have  her  love  your  boy." 

"  My  sister  never  dreams  of  such  a  thing.  A 
singer  as  my  wife  !  The  mere  idea  would  frighten 
her  !  I  was  infatuated  !  I  was  mad  !  " 


PA  UL.  73 

"  Paul  is  a  noble  child,  a  child  with  kindly  ways. 
If  you  try  while  he  is  still  young,  he  may  learn  to 
love  your  second  wife."  Kate  rose  from  her  chair. 
Bitterly  the  words  sounded,  deeply  the  wound  was 
touched. 

"  My  wife  !  "  I  cried  ;  "  there  is  but  one  woman 
who  can  be  my  wife  ;  you  are  that  woman."  Then 
I  stopped  ;  I  did  not  mean  to  say  it.  Mademoi- 
selle Baron  was  very  pale ;  she  moved  away.  As 
she  stood  by  the  table  arranging  her  papers  her 
hands  shook.  She  was  cold ;  she  was  proud. 
How  well  I  knew  it ! 

"  I  shall  finish  these  pages  to-morrow,"  she  said. 
I  held  out  my  hand.  I  wanted  her  forgiveness. 

"  Do  not  think  hardly  of  me,"  I  said  ;  "  a  man 
cannot  always  remain  silent.  Do  not  look  back 
upon  this  conversation.  Forget  it,  forget  it  if 
you  can."  For  a  moment  she  glanced  at  me. 

"I  am  sure,  when  you  come  to  think  it  all  over, 
you  will  be  guided  by  what  is  honorable,  by  what 
is  right,"  she  said. 

Then  with  a  sudden  movement  she  turned  from 
me  and  went  quickly  from  the  room. 

After  she  had  gone  I  stood  before  the  dying 
fire.  In  those  flames  I  saw  my  cherished  dreams 


74  PA  UL. 

burn  out ;  I  saw  my  brightest  hopes  turn  to  life- 
less ashes  in  the  grate.  This  girl,  this  governess, 
if  things  had  happened  otherwise,  might  have 
been  my  promised  wife,  might  have  been  forever 
the  teacher  of  my  child. 

Just  then  my  sister  joined  me  and  broke  in  upon 
my  reflections,  iwas  glad  to  change  the  current 
of  my  thought. 

"  Philip,"  she  began,  "  you  have  been  saying 
something  to  that  governess  to-night.  You  may 
as  well  confess  it ;  you  need  not  try  to  hide  any- 
thing from  me." 

"My  dear  sister,"  said  I,  "it  would  be  as  wise 
in  you,  and  much  better  for  me,  if  you  would  dis- 
miss this  governess  from  your  mind." 

"  Philip,  I  am  astonished.  It  is  impossible  to 
deny  my  words.  You  have  made  that  governess  un- 
happy. I  have  noticed  her  of  late.  She  has  lost 
her  spirit  and  her  cheerfulness.  Just  now,  in 
passing  by  her  door,  I  heard  her  sobbing  piteously 
in  the  refuge  of  the  dark.  That  governess  has 
something  on  her  mind." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  I  replied,  angry  at  my  sister's 
interference,  angry  at  the  justice  of  her  words. 
"  Mademoiselle  Baron  is  not  unhappy.  She  has 


PAUL.  7$ 

never  seemed  more  bright.  But  while  we  are  dis- 
cussing the  subject,  Celia,  I  would  like  you  to 
understand  once  and  forever  that  I  shall  never 
marry  Kate."  There  was  decision  in  my  manner, 
determination  in  my  face. 

The  next  morning  I  saw  no  traces  of  Kate's 
tears.  She  looked  happy  and  content.  I  was 
much  relieved.  I  always  feared  she  might  decide 
to  leave  her  place. 

But  well  founded  were  my  fears.  After  break- 
fast she  begged  to  speak  with  me  a  moment  and 
alone. 

I  took  her  into  my  office.  She  stood  before  me 
just  as  she  had  done  the  first  day  I  heard  her 
voice,  the  first  hour  I  saw  her  face.  Well  I 
remembered  the  interest  which  had  awakened 
in  me  for  the  young  governess.  Our  interview 
was  soon  ended.  In  vain  I  pleaded  with  her  to 
reconsider  her  decision,  to  remain  in  my  house. 
But  her  mind  was  quite  decided.  I  argued  I 
would  be  much  away  from  home.  My  presence 
would  trouble  her  but  little  in  the  months  to  come. 
She  would  not  change  her  mind.  I  suppose  my 
confidences  had  alarmed  her,  my  words  had 
frightened  her.  It  was  with  a  weary  spirit,  a  sad 


/6  PA  UL. 

heart,  I  went  out  to  my  calls  that  morning.     Kate 
going  away  !     Kate  leaving  us  forever  ! 

The  next  two  days  went  quickly.  On  the  third 
morning  the  governess  had  gone. 

Again  we  began  the  slow  routine  of  life,  again 
the  mornings  turned  to  afternoons,  the  evenings 
into  nights  —  and  Kate  had  really  gone.  Paul 
seemed  much  changed  by  her  absence.  My  sister 
and  I  tried  our  best  to  cheer  the  little  fellow. 
He  talked  all  day  awake,  he  dreamed  all  night 
asleep,  of  Mademoiselle  Baron. 

Celia  proposed  another  governess.  I  scorned 
the  idea.  How  find  a  substitute  for  cold,  proud 
Kate  ?  But  soon  I  saw  that  Paul  needed  the  con- 
stant companionship,  the  unceasing  care.  So  we 
sent  him  off  to  school. 

It  was  about  this  time  I  received  a  short  note 
from  my  fiancee.  She  returned  my  letters,  she 
broke  our  engagement.  I  knew  I  had  been  lacking 
in  my  visits,  in  my  attentions  to  her.  But  were 
there  not  great  excuses  for  me  ?  Had  I  not  many 
things  to  occupy  my  thoughts  just  then? 

I  was  relieved.  My  heart  was  full  of  thankful- 
ness. The  engagement  at  an  end  !  The  ring 
—  the  stone  was  opal  —  she  had  kept.  I  had 


PAUL.  77 

no  superstitions,  but  I  wondered  sometimes  why 
she  kept  my  ring.  It  was  of  an  unusual  bril- 
liancy, an  unusual  color.  No  doubt  she  prized 
its  value. 

Thus  my  days  sped  on.  I  worked  in  the  even- 
ings constantly,  while  my  sister  sat  before  the  fire. 
Paul  was  far  away ;  the  governess  gone  forever. 
Sadly  I  thought  of  my  separation  from  my  boy ; 
sadly  I  thought  of  my  separation  from  my  friend. 
In  vain  I  looked  for  traces  of  Mademoiselle  Baron. 
In  vain  I  searched  the  papers  for  her  name.  The 
name  of  the  singer  I  would  sometimes  see  in  the 
foreign  notes,  for  she  had  long  since  left  my 
country.  My  thoughts  dwelt  not  in  the  present, 
not  in  the  future,  but  in  the  past.  The  happy 
past  !  Once  my  sister  spoke  of  Kate.  She 
praised  her  talents,  she  praised  her  ways.  How 
strange  that  every  one  loved  Kate  !  I  blamed  my- 
self for  allowing  her  to  go.  I  blamed  myself  for 
speaking  as  I  did.  The  proud  girl  had  never 
thought  of  me  :  I  was  confident  she  had  not. 

The  holidays  came ;  Paul  was  at  home.  The 
holidays  passed  ;  Paul  had  gone  again. 

The  years  went  on.  I  thought  with  pride  of 
my  handsome  son ;  he  was  no  longer  a  child,  but 


?S  PA  17L. 

a  man.  He  was  all  I  could  desire ;  he  was  all  I 
could  wish  —  tall  and  handsome,  manly  and  clever, 
honest  and  true.  But  his  interests  were  away 
from  his  aunt,  away  from  me.  His  college,  his 
chums,  his  sports,  became  his  life. 

I  began  to  realize  how  changed  I  was,  how  old 
I  had  grown.  The  enthusiasm  seemed  to  be  dy- 
ing, the  strength  weakening  in  my  ardent  spirit. 
I  was  too  much  alone,  too  much  narrowed  in  my 
private  life.  I  blessed  my  education,  I  blessed 
my  profession.  Without  those  tools  to  form  my 
interests,  I  would  have  been  hopeless,  I  would 
have  been  lost  indeed. 

Paul's  letters  were  always  bright,  always  enthu- 
siastic. How  it  gladdened  my  heart  to  think  my 
son  was  happy  ! 

One  evening  in  the  spring  my  sister  came  home 
tired.  I  asked  her  if  she  had  been  out  too  long, 
if  she  had  walked  too  far.  She  said  her  day  had 
been  fatiguing  with  its  interests,  its  cares.  I 
laughed.  These  charitable  organizations  are  the 
torment  of  men's  lives.  Their  sisters,  their 
cousins,  come  home  worn  out  with  meetings,  ex- 
hausted with  committee  work.  But  my  sister 
closed  her  ears  to  these  arguments  of  mine.  She 


PA  UL.  79 

was  the  chairwoman,  the  secretary,  the  president, 
of  numerous  auxiliaries,  she  said.  So  I  looked  on 
in  silence. 

"  Philip,"  began  the  good  woman,  "  Philip,  I 
have  seen  Paul's  governess  to-day." 

"You  have  seen  Paul's  governess  ?"  I  cried. 

"She  passed  me  quickly  in  the  street." 

"  And  you  did  not  stop  her  ? " 

"How  could  I  ?     She  did  not  give  rne  time." 

"  Celia,  "how  could  you  be  so  stupid  ? " 

"Stupid  !" 

"  Yes ;  you  knew  I  wanted  to  see  the  girl. 
These  years  I  have  searched  for  her  in  vain." 

"  You  never  told  me  you  were  looking  for  her. 
I  thought  you  never  cared  for  the  governess." 

"  Celia  !  "  I  protested.  "  How  can  you  torment 
me  so  ? " 

"  If  I  had  known  your  anxiety  about  her  where- 
abouts, I  might  have  rushed  after  her  through  the 
crowded  streets." 

"  How  was  she  dressed  ? "  I  asked. 

"  In  mourning." 

"  In  mourning  ?  I  suppose  some  one  belonging 
to  her  must  have  died." 

"  You   need   not  look  so  concerned,"  said   my 


80  PA  UL. 

sister :  "  as  we  never  knew  any  of  her  relations, 
their  death  need  not  worry  us." 

"  I  know  ;  but  I  should  hate  to  think  of  her 
in  sorrow.  Did  you  think  her  changed,  Celia  ? 
Did  she  look  much  older  ? "  I  asked. 

"  She  looked  older,  of  course ;  we  all  look  older. 
Think  how  Paul  has  grown  since  she  was  here." 

I  thought  of  the  white  hairs  which  had  come 
to  me,  and  I  was  silent. 

"  Philip,"  continued  my  sister,  "  as  you  have 
manifested  this  interest  in  the  governess,  I  will 
tell  you  that  she  was  walking  with  a  friend  of 
mine.  No  doubt  as  companion  to  her." 

"  Celia  !  You  then  can  find  her  whereabouts  for 
me  ?  " 

"  You  really  want  to  see  her  ?  " 

"  I  really  want  to  see  her,"  I  replied,  flushing 
deeply. 

So  it  happened  that  my  sister  gave  me  the  long- 
hoped  for  opportunity.  I  saw  Kate.  I  went  to 
call  upon  her  with  my  sister.  She  was  changed, 
she  was  older.  Her  black  dress  made  her  face 
look  thin  and  pale.  But  to  me  she  was  Kate, 
proud  Kate.  After  I  had  left  her,  the  brief  few 
minutes  in  her  presence  seemed  like  a  dream.  I 


PA  UL.  8 1 

wondered  if  she  could  have  known  I  was  unmar- 
ried. If,  as  I  talked  to  her,  she  could  have  thought 
the  singer  was  my  wife.  The  conversation  had 
been  principally  about  Paul.  Her  face  flushed  as 
she  spoke  of  him.  Celia  had  been  very  kind  in 
her  manner.  But  she  had  always  a  tender  spot 
in  her  heart  for  Kate. 

On  our  return  home  Celia  told  me  she  had  in- 
vited the  governess  to  dinner  the  next  evening. 
"  I  told  her  to  bring  her  embroidery,  and  sit  by 
the  lamp  with  me,  in  memory  of  the  old  times." 
How  kind  my  sister  was  ! 

When  the  next  day  dawned,  I  could  scarcely 
wait  for  afternoon ;  the  hours  had  never  seemed 
so  long. 

At  length  dinner  was  ready,  Kate  was  in  the 
house ;  again  at  our  table,  again  in  our  home. 
How  strange  it  was  to  think  of  the  days  and 
weeks  and  months  which  had  worn  themselves 
away  since  she  had  gone  from  us !  The  con- 
versation was  difficult ;  we  all  felt  embarrassed. 
Paul  became  again  the  subject  of  our  remarks. 

Later,  as  we  sat  around  the  lamp,  my  sister 
sewing,  Kate  embroidering,  and  I  hard  at  work, 
with  a  rush  it  came  over  me,  with  a  pain  at  my 


82  PAUL. 

heart,  I  realized  that  Kate  could  not  remain 
always.  I  wondered  what  she  thought  of  my 
broken  engagement.  For  I  supposed  she  had 
guessed  the  truth.  But  she  had  too  much  tact  to 
express  one  word,  even  by  a  glance.  I  listened 
to  her  voice  as  I  heard  her  speaking  to  my  sister. 

"I  am  grieved  to  see  you  in  mourning,"  Celia 
remarked. 

"  I  have  lost  my  mother,"  the  governess 
replied.  She  bent  her  eyes  upon  her  work. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  my  sister.  "  Was  she 
ill  long?" 

"Only  a  short  time." 

"To  lose  your  mother  is  indeed  a  sorrow." 

"  She  was  not  my  own  mother,  who  died  when 
I  was  born.  This  was  my  step-mother." 

"Ah!  Your  step-mother;  that  is  a  different 
matter,"  said  my  sister.  Then  they  remained 
silent.  Swiftly  the  girl's  needle  flew,  swiftly  her 
fingers  moved  over  the  embroidery.  Celia  went 
up-stairs  to  get  another  piece  of  sewing ;  we  two 
were  left  alone.  As  I  watched  Kate  from  my 
writing,  I  saw  the  fingers  on  her  right  hand  move. 
My  eyes  fell  upon  her  ring  —  an  opal  ring. 
Quickly  I  rose,  eagerly  I  stood  before  her. 


PA  UL.  83 

"You  are  fond  of  jewelry?"  I  asked,  pointing 
to  her  hand. 

She  flushed  crimson.  "  No  ;  I  have  only  worn 
this  since  my  step  mother  died." 

"  Since  your  step-mother  died  ? "  I  repeated. 

"  She  gave  it  into  my  care,  into  my  keeping." 

I  bent  my  head.  I  looked  into  the  blanched 
face. 

"  Do  you  know  whose  ring  that  is  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  governess.  I  bit  my  lips  ;  my 
face  reddened  in  the  fear  of  what  was  coming. 

"Mademoiselle  Baron,"  I  said,  "is  it  possible? 
Could  such  a  dreadful  thing  be  true  ?  Was  the 
woman  I  had  promised  to  marry  your  —  your 
step-mother  ? " 

The  governess  raised  her  eyes. 

"  She  was  my  step-mother.  You  knew  her 
only  by  her  public  name,"  she  replied.  "  And 
now,  though  you  should  hate  me,  despise  me, 
when  I  tell  you  all,  I  am  glad  to  speak  the  truth." 
The  governess  stood  up  before  me.  I  saw  the 
opal  flickering  its  lights  on  her  hand. 

"  If  I  speak,  you  must  hear  me  to  the  end."  I 
bowed  my  head.  "When  I  came  here  to  be  the 
governess  to  your  boy,  I  came  at  her  bidding,  I 


84  PA  UL. 

came  at  her  command.  I  knew  your  history,  long 
before  you  told  me  anything.  I  knew  you  had 
promised  to  marry  her.  I  saw  the  engagement 
was  a  secret,  I  saw  the  mistake  that  you  had 
made.  She  cared  for  you.  She  wanted  to  leave 
the  stage ;  she  wished  to  be  your  wife.  It  was 
my  promise  to  her  which  brought  me  to  your  house  ; 
my  duty  to  you  which  drove  me  from  it.  Your 
engagement  was  broken  because  I  used  my  influ- 
ence, I  used  my  power,  to  help  you,  to  spare  your 
sister,  to  save  your  boy." 

"  You  knew  all  this !  Thus  you  kept  your 
counsel,  played  your  game,  practised  your  deceit." 
She  looked  at  me  scornfully. 

"Take  this,"  she  said.  She  drew  the  ring  off 
her  finger  and  put  it  in  my  hand.  "  It  is  yours," 
she  went  on  ;  "  the  ring  is  yours,  but  the  secret  of 
your  engagement  is  mine  forever."  She  laughed 
at  my  embarrassment,  she  laughed  at  my  fear. 

"We  share  the  secret,"  she  said;  "you  must 
never  deny  that." 

I  saw  my  sister  coming  down  the  stairs ;  the 
governess  must  have  seen  her  too,  for  she  resumed 
her  work,  she  regained  her  composure. 

Kate  went  home  early.     She  had  to  be  in  at  a 


PAUL.  85 

certain  hour,  she  said.  I  did  not  regret  her  de- 
parture. I  was  relieved  when  the  door  closed 
behind  her,  and  I  remained  on  the  inside. 

My  sister  went  soon  to  bed.  I  sat  up  far  into 
the  night :  I  thought  over  many  things.  The 
ring  I  took  from  my  pocket.  I  opened  wide  my 
window  and  thrust  it  into  the  dark  streets. 
"  Good-by,  good-by,  ye  memories,  forever." 


When  Paul  came  home  that  summer  I  had 
many  happy  days.  I  had  recovered  from  my 
shocks,  and  tried  my  best  to  entertain  my  son.  I 
told  him  I  had  seen  his  governess.  He  laughed  and 
said  he  did  not  think  he  would  recognize  her  now. 
"  Of  the  two  you  have  changed  the  most,"  I  said. 

Paul  was  anxious  to  take  a  trip  abroad.  It  was 
reluctantly  I  assented  to  accompany  him. 

We  travelled  through  the  principal  French 
towns  and  crossed  into  Switzerland. 

One  night  Paul  came  home  in  high  spirits.  He 
had  been  on  an  excursion  with  some  Englishmen. 

"  Father,  whom  do  you  suppose  I  met  ?  "  he 
asked.  I  shook  my  head.  I  had  grown  too  old 
to  care  for  these  surprises. 


86  PA  UL. 

"  I  met  my  governess !  "     My  heart  beat  fast. 

"  How  did  you  recognize  her  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  asked  who  she  was.  I  thought  her  face 
so  interesting.  At  first  I  did  not  understand,  but 
there  must  have  been  something  mutual  about  the 
recognition,  for  she  spoke  to  me." 

"  She  knew  you  ! "  I  exclaimed. 

"  She  heard  the  men  call  me  by  name." 

"  Did  she  say  she  was  coming  in  this  direc- 
tion ? "  I  asked. 

"  No ;  she  went  the  other  route,  the  opposite 
way." 

How  like  her,  I  thought,  how  like  Kate ! 

"  Father,"  continued  Paul,  "  he  is  quite  a  nice- 
looking  chap." 

"  Who  ?"  I  asked  absently. 

"  Her  husband.  The  governess  is  married,  you 
know."  As  he  spoke  Paul  sauntered  off.  I  heard 
him  talking  with  his  friends.  Their  merry  laugh- 
ter reached  my  ears.  I  bowed  my  head  :  the  joy- 
ous sounds  did  but  mock  me.  A  lump  rose  to  my 
throat,  a  sob  burst  from  me. 

"My boy,  my  boy,  you  do  not  understand.  You 
will  never  know  it  was  you  who  broke  the  news 
to  me,  you  who  thrust  the  sting  into  my  heart." 


A  MODERN   ACTRESS. 


A  MODERN  ACTRESS. 


TRY  to  make  a  correct  description  of  your 
neighbor,  your  friend.  How  much  more  difficult 
would  you  find  it  to  describe  yourself !  your  ap- 
pearance, your  character,  your  disposition  :  they 
are  safe  in  your  own  hands,  in  your  own  keeping, 
no  doubt ;  but  turn  these  virtues,  these  faults, 
over  to  another's  care.  What  then  ?  The  judg- 
ment of  your  idols  will  be  a  surprise,  a  revelation 
to  you. 

I,  Edward  Lynton,  2d,  now  find  myself  in  this 
predicament.  To  paint  my  own  character,  my 
own  appearance,  is  not  an  easy  matter.  I  would, 
at  this  moment,  hand  my  task  over  to  my  neigh- 
bor, —  friend  or  foe  whoever  he  may  be. 

A  society  man.  What  do  the  words  imply  ? 
A  fool?  Nay,  but  a  wise  man, — a  man  who  is 
proud  of  his  birth,  his  position,  his  name. 

Born  in  lace,  reared  in  luxury,  surrounded 
89 


90  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

always  by  New  York's  fashion,  New  York's  cul- 
ture—  with  whom  would  I  change?  I  trow  with 
no  one  dead,  with  no  one  living.  Handsome  ? 
Yes.  I  have  heard  it  said  of  me. 

I  began  my  social  career  at  an  early  age. 
Money  in  my  pockets,  money  in  my  bank,  money 
everywhere.  No  want  of  mine  could  exhaust  my 
funds.  Where  shall  I  put  it  ?  Upon  whom  shall 
I  spend  it  ?  became  my  constant  question,  my 
unceasing  cry. 

My  horses  were  fast,  my  turnouts  stylish  —  the 
most  costly  in  that  dashing  New  York  set. 

I  was  present  at  every  private  entertainment, 
every  public  gathering.  I  became  a  well-known 
figure,  a  conspicuous  character,  on  the  avenue  and 
in  the  park. 

Thus  my  days  went  by  quickly,  my  years  began 
to  multiply  swiftly. 

At  thirty  I  tired  of  horses  and  soon  interested 
myself  in  literature  and  art.  I  had  been  to  many 
theatres  ;  I  had  seen  actresses  in  many  parts. 

The  stage  must  be  elevated,  improved,  I  thought. 
I  longed  for  an  opportunity  to  interest  myself  in 
its  plays,  its  players.  But  it  was  in  vain  I 
waited  for  the  subject  —  the  woman  to  imper- 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  9! 

senate  my  idea,  to  carry  out  my  scheme.  At  no 
performance  could  I  find  her,  in  no  house  did  she 
appear.  Was  the  world  bereft  of  this  particular 
type  of  woman  ?  Was  there  no  actress  to  paint 
the  writer's  dream,  to  climb  the  heights  of  the 
stage's  possibilities  ? 

When  pathos  is  shown  by  real  tears,  when  joys 
are  depicted  by  real  enthusiasm,  when  players 
live  their  parts  with  firm  beliefs,  with  great  con- 
ceptions, —  then,  and  only  then,  shall  our  actors 
rise  to  fame,  our  stage  to  art. 

Within  myself  I  argued,  I  reasoned,  of  the 
laurels  awaiting  a  talented  woman,  a  dramatic 
genius.  To  act  was  a  high  ambition,  a  great 
career.  I  could  appreciate  the  fulness  of  it.  I 
could  criticise  others — I  could  tell  in  what  they 
failed,  in  what  they  excelled  ;  I  could  speak  of 
them  easily,  write  of  them  fluently  —  but  for  my 
own  talents  I  could  find  no  description,  give  no 
name.  To  act  was  indeed  beyond,  above  me.  I 
had  once  such  a  dream  ;  long  since  had  I  awak- 
ened from  it.  My  social  standing  alone  became 
my  judge,  my  adviser.  To  carry  out  my  desire 
I  must  renounce  New  York  society  —  the  society 
in  whose  praises  I  had  so  often  basked,  in  whose 


92  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

circles  my  money  had  so  often  jingled.  My 
father,  a  proud,  stern  man,  declined  to  hear  of 
my  project.  "  Go  upon  the  stage,  but  it  shall  be 
penniless  !  "  he  cried.  "  In  taking  such  a  step,  I 
would  consider  you  beneath  my  notice,  my  recog- 
nition. No  actor  shall  bear  my  father's  honored 
name." 

Angry,  disappointed,  I  saw  the  folly  of  pressing 
my  dear  project,  my  beloved  dream. 

Still,  I  interested  myself  in  plays  and  players. 
I  became  intimate  with  the  different  managers  ; 
I  frequented  their  houses. 

I  discussed  the  possibilities  of  a  great  actress, 
the  impossibilities  of  a  poor  one.  Such  talent  as 
I  searched  for  was  hidden  behind  the  curtains  of 
pride,  of  aristocracy  even.  Real  talent,  real  re- 
finement, real  beauty,  real  grace,  where  should  we 
find  them  ?  On  what  stage  would  they  allow 
themselves  to  appear  ?  There  is  something  lack- 
ing in  the  greatest  actresses ;  how  difficult  to 
point  out  what  that  something  is  !  You  find  it  in 
the  women  in  your  ballrooms,  in  the  women  in 
your  houses ;  but  it  seems  to  vanish  with  those 
behind  the  footlights  on  the  stage. 

One  winter's  night  I  trudged  along  the  streets 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  93 

of  New  York.  The  winds  were  high,  the  snow 
deep.  I  closed  tightly  my  warm  scarf,  my  heavy 
coat.  I  pressed  my  hands  down  into  my  protect- 
ing pockets.  I  began  to  wish  myself  at  home. 

Soon  I  came  in  sight  of  a  theatre.  The  lights 
were  flaring,  the  late-comers  going  in.  I  stopped. 
I  glanced  a  moment  at  the  play-bills.  I  consulted 
my  watch  :  an  hour  of  the  play  was  already  over. 
I  entered  the  crowded  house.  I  procured  a  seat 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  stage.  I  could  see  that 
the  piece  ran  smoothly,  but  I  was  not  much  inter- 
ested in  watching  the  actors  in  their  parts.  The 
star  appeared.  Clapping  of  hands  greeted  her. 
She  was  too  large,  I  thought ;  too  heavy  in  her 
movements  ;  they  lacked  ease  and  grace.  Then 
the  second  character  entered — the  character  of 
a  young  and  beautiful  girl.  Her  strong  face,  her 
peculiar  eyes,  seemed  to  haunt  me  in  their  earnest 
gaze.  It  was  a  difficult  part ;  she  had  conceived  it 
well.  "An  actress!"  I  murmured ;  "an  actress, 
indeed  !"  Her  young  face  was  pale  and  colorless, 
quite  unlike  most  women  of  the  type.  Her  pose 
was  good,  her  figure  fine.  If  you  were  the  hero- 
ine of  this  play,  then  people  might  well  flock  to 
note  your  beauty  and  your  grace. 


94  A   MODERN  ACTRESS, 

Just  then  she  turned  her  face.  I  saw  the 
strange  light  in  her  eyes;  they  were  of  a  deep 
color,  more  green  than  blue.  I  wondered  if  she 
were  ambitious. 

Before  leaving  the  theatre  that  night  I  learned 
her  name.  Brown !  How  dreadful !  how  com- 
monplace !  thought  I. 

But  through  the  following  hours,  far  into  the 
dawn,  I  pictured  visions  of  the  rise,  the  success, 
of  the  young  actress,  Miss  Ann  Brown !  It  was 
I  who  would  bring  her  into  notice.  I  who  would 
cause  her  to  be  crowned  with  honors  and  with 
fame.  I  would  make  her  career  my  special 
charge.  I  would  begin  at  once  to  arrange  for  her 
new  studies,  her  new  parts.  She  would  work  hard 
and  diligently  through  the  spring  and  summer.  It 
was  a  great  plan,  a  brilliant  scheme ;  my  mind 
was  soon  absorbed  in  it. 

I  made  the  necessary  inquiries  concerning  Miss 
Brown,  and  I  obtained  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  her  manager  to  her  father.  She  lived  in  a 
side  street  near  Fourth  Avenue.  I  called  at  the 
house  the  next  afternoon.  The  Browns  were  out. 
I  waited  two  days  before  repeating  my  visit. 

This   time   fortune   favored   me,  —  I    met    the 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  95 

actress  upon  her  own  steps.  I  raised  my  hat  ;  I 
begged  pardon.  She  flushed  deeply,  murmured 
a  few  words  which  I  did  not  understand.  "  I 
have  come,"  said  I,  with  an  attempt  at  boldness 
which  was  rendered  difficult  by  an  unexpected 
glance  from  the  actress,  "  with  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction." 

"To  my  father?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I.     "  I  hope  he  is  at  home." 

"  He  went  out  an  hour  ago  with  me.  He 
returns  early  to  dinner.'.'  Just  then  the  door  was 
opened  and  Miss  Brown  walked  in. 

"  Will  you  wait  for  him  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,"  I  answered,  at  a  loss  for 
words.  We  went  quickly  through  a  narrow  entry, 
and  up  a  long  flight  of  stairs.  The  actress  turned 
to  a  door  on  the  right,  opened  it,  and  motioned 
me  to  follow  her.  It  was  a  cheerful  parlor,  well- 
furnished  and  comfortable.  I  felt  embarrassed. 
I  had  hoped  to  find  a  poorer  establishment  and  a 
less  well-to-do  person  in  Miss  Brown. 

She  pointed  to  a  chair  near  the  fire. 

"  You  will  find  that  comfortable,"  she  said. 
Moving  to  the  chair,  I  stood  before  it  while  she 
walked  about  the  room.  Her  grace  was  fascinat- 


96  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

ing,  her  movements  enchanting.  She  went  to 
the  lamps  and  lighted  them.  A  glow  was  cast 
upon  her  pale  face,  her  white  brow. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  find  warmth  and  shelter," 
said  I,  "on  so  cold  a  day  as  this." 

"  Yes,  we  have  had  many  storms  and  winds 
this  winter.  I  often  find  New  York  too 
cold." 

"  Why  do  you  remain  here  then  ?  " 

"  My  work  keeps  me." 

"  Do  you  find  your  occupation  tedious  ? "  I 
ventured. 

"  Oh,  no.  Sometimes  I  would  like  to  remain 
at  home.  But  then,  you  see,  I  can't." 

"Do  you  then  enjoy  your  studies?"  I  con- 
tinued. 

"  The  repetition  is  tiresome." 

"  You  should  have  change." 

"  How  can  I  have  it  ? "  laughed  the  girl. 

"  A  plan  might  be  devised." 

"  Father  says  I  am  too  impatient  with  my 
parts." 

"  Your  father  is  quite  right.  He  knows  your 
ability,  your  talent."  She  laughed  again  a  little 
bitterly,  I  thought. 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  97 

"  And  what  if  I  have  no  talent  ? "  she  said  ; 
then  drew  her  chair  nearer  the  fire,  and  rested 
her  chin  upon  her  slender  hands  before  the  hot 
blaze.  She  looked  very  beautiful  in  her  plain 
gown,  her  cheap  hat. 

"  I  can  see  it  in  your  face,"  I  replied.  "  What 
you  need  is  study ;  experience  to  bring  your 
talents  out."  She  shook  her  head  ;  her  green 
eyes  widened,  then  shrank  again  behind  the  dark 
lashes  that  fell  upon  her  cheeks. 

"  What  would  experience  do  for  me  ? " 

"A  great  deal,  I  think,  in  your  theatrical 
life."" 

"Experience  means  wickedness  and  vice." 

"  No,"  I  cried.  "  You  are  wrong,  quite  wrong. 
Have  no  such  thought.  Experience  would  make 
you  wiser,  happier.  I  am  sure  of  that."  She 
looked  straight  at  me. 

"  You  are  joking,"  she  said.  I  bent  nearer  to 
her.  I  know  not  why  I  did  so,  it  was  the  impulse 
of  the  moment. 

"  I  have  never  been  more  earnest  in  my  life. 
But  trust  in  me,  Miss  Brown.  I  do  assure  you, 
the  life  you  lead  just  now  is  narrowed.  If 
you  rise  in  your  profession,  you  will  learn  much 


98  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

that  is  good,  much  that  is  true."  She  took  off 
her  hat.  She  ran  her  long  fingers  through  her 
short  black  hair. 

"  I  cannot  believe  you,"  she  said.  Then  hear- 
ing a  step  outside,  she  rose  and  opened  the  door 
for  her  father. 

He  was  a  tall,  stately  old  man.  I  could  at  "a 
glance  see  the  remains  of  his  beauty.  He  held 
out  his  hand  to  me  with  a  certain  hesitation,  cer- 
tain simplicity. 

'•  You  want  to  see  me  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  rising  and  handing  him  the 
letter. 

"  Sit  right  down  again,  sir,  while  I  take  off  my 
coat  and  gloves."  His  daughter  came  forward, 
but  did  not  put  out  her  hand  to  help  the  old 
man  in  his  struggle  to  disengage  his  cuffs 
and  sleeves.  I  offered  my  assistance,  but  she 
bounded  forward,  and  throwing  me  a  defiant 
glance,  seized  her  father's  arm  and  nearly  broke 
it,  in  her  quick  determination  to  free  the  coat 
from  his  trembling  grasp. 

Then  she  turned  away  quickly. 

"  I  will  leave  you,"  she  said.  Her  manner  was 
curt  to  rudeness.  It  was  quite  useless  to  extend 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  99 

my  hand  for  good-by  ;  she  did  not  mean  to  notice 
me  again. 

I  was  disappointed.  I  found  it  difficult  to  begin 
my  conversation  with  the  old  man.  "  Mr.  Brown," 
said  I,  "  I  have  come  here  on  what  may  seem  an 
extraordinary  errand.  I  went  to  the  theatre  a  few 
nights  ago  ;  I  noticed  your  daughter  on  the  stage." 
I  waited  for  Mr.  Brown  to  answer,  but  he  only 
nodded  his  head.  I  thought  his  eyes  brightened 
as  I  continued.  "  Perhaps  you  can  help  me  in  my 
scheme." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said. 

"  I  want  to  make  a  proposition  to  you."  He 
leaned  forward  and  his  bright  eyes  met  mine.  "  I 
want  your  help,  Mr.  Brown." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  repeated. 

"  Your  daughter,  with  whom  I  have  just  had  a 
few  moments'  conversation,  has  not  her  full  rights 
in  her  present  position  on  the  stage." 

Mr.  Brown  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his  face 
looked  worn  and  haggard. 

"  What  is  your  proposition  ? "  he  said. 

"  That  your  daughter  shall  study  for  a  higher 
part."  He  passed  his  hands  over  his  knees  and 
then  answered,  — 


100  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

"  It  is  impossible." 

"  Why  impossible  ? " 

"  Money  is  needed."     I  coughed  uneasily. 

"  Mr.  Brown,  I  am  a  complete  stranger  to  you. 
My  father  is  Mr.  Edward  Lynton.  I  am  his  only 
son.  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  upon  you 
solely  on  account  of  the  interest  which  I  feel  in 
the  success  of  your  daughter." 

"  Such  attentions  are  not  unusual  with  gentle- 
men where  the  career  of  an  actress  is  concerned," 
he  replied  ;  "  but  my  daughter  is  proud  ;  impossi- 
ble. I  would  advise  you  to  let  the  matter  alone." 

I  coughed  again. 

"  If  I  am  really  interested  in  her  welfare,  which 
I  am,  I  cannot  so  easily  set  aside  my  plan." 

"  You  might,  sir,  be  disappointed  if  you  did 
help  her."  I  felt  disappointed  already. 

"  We  might  help  her  together,"  I  replied,  my 
mind  wandering  far  away  from  the  small  parlor 
and  the  old  man.     I   saw  the   actress   upon  the 
stage  ;  I  heard  the  noise  of  her  success  ;  the  peo- , 
pie  were  applauding  her  talent,  her  acting. 

"  What,  then,  is  your  idea  ? "  I  roused  myself  to 
speak. 

"  To  have  her  study  regularly  for  a  new  play, 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  IOI 

that  she  may  take  a  first  part."  The  father 
laughed. 

"  She  is  a  handsome  lass,  there's  no  doubt  of 
that,  sir ;  but  you  don't  know  her  —  you  don't 
know  her  half." 

"  I  could  not  expect  to  know  her  on  so  short  an 
acquaintance,"  I  said.  I  was  annoyed  with  the 
old  man.  He  was  so  confident  in  his  opinion  of 
the  handsome  girl.  But  there  was  much  to  admire 
in  his  simplicity,  his  truth.  I  could  already  judge 
that  Miss  Brown's  character  was  strong,  her  dis- 
position difficult.  Born  in  a  higher  station  of  life, 
would  she  not  have  been  a  great  lady  ?  A  charm- 
ing woman  of  society  ? 

"  She  will  succeed,  I  am  confident  of  it,"  I  said. 
Mr.  Brown  cleared  his  throat  and  then  answered, — 

"  I  have  had  charge  of  the  girl  since  her  mother 
died.  She  was  a  gentle,  good  child.  I  had  no 
fault  to  find. 

"  I  was  unfortunate  in  business.  I  lost  the 
greater  part  of  my  income.  Too  old  was  I,  then, 
to  begin  life  over  again.  I  found  my  child  would 
have  to  work  for  her  support.  She  was  strong 
and  able  to  undertake  her  task.  When  still  very 
young  I  put  her  upon  the  stage.  She  had  a  fair 


102  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

education.  At  first,  I  did  not  realize  the  hard- 
ships of  such  a  life.  I  see  it  all  now  —  to-day, 
when  it  is  too  late.  Hers  has  been  a  dark,  a 
tedious  journey." 

"  Her  beauty  should  have  been  remarked," 
said  I. 

"  It  was,  it  was,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"  Then  why  did  she  not  succeed  ? " 

"  Ann's  interest  in  her  studies  seemed  to  flag. 
Her  ambition  carried  her  to  the  second  parts,  in 
which  you  now  find  her,  no  farther." 

"Did  she  not  have  good  stage  training?"  I 
asked. 

"  Yes,  yes.  But  it  has  not  improved  her.  Her 
life  is  a  mistake,  a  failure." 

"Her  life  has  only  just  begun,"  I  cried. 

"  Even  so,  I  fear  it  will  be  hard  to  change  my 
girl  now." 

"  She  must  succeed,"  I  said.  I  rose  to  my  feet, 
I  walked  a  few  steps  back  and  forth  before  the  old 
man.  He  seemed  feebler  to  me  than  I  had  at  first 
supposed. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  I  exclaimed,  "  let  me  pay  the 
needed  money.  The  manager  of  New  York's  best 
theatre  is  my  friend.  I  shall  bring  your  daughter 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  103 

to  his  notice.  In  a  year's  time,  sooner,  Miss 
Brown  shall  be  New  York's  great  star."  I  held 
out  my  hand  ;  the  old  man  grasped  it.  We  were 
friends,  real  friends.  I  felt  confident  of  our 
success.  Before  leaving  I  arranged  to  call  again 
the  next  day,  Mr.  Brown  promising  to  inform  his 
daughter  of  our  plans. 

"  It  must  be  slowly,  carefully  done,"  he  mur- 
mured. I  laughed  and  wished  him  good  luck. 

"  Good-by  !  Great  success  !  "  said  I  with  a  wave 
of  my  hand  and  a  vain  attempt  at  hilarity. 

"  Good-by  !  good-by  !  "  repeated  the  old  man. 
He  looked  absently  at  me. 

That  night  I  went  again  to  the  theatre.  My 
seat  was  in  a  poorer  position  in  the  house,  but  I 
managed  to  see  Miss  Brown  as  she  came  upon  the 
stage.  She  walked  with  a  firm  and  almost  too 
decided  tread  in  going  through  her  parts.  She 
did  not  seem  to  pay  sufficient  heed  to  the  move- 
ments of  her  fellow-actors.  Her  face  looked 
flushed  ;  her  green  eyes  wide  and  searching  in 
their  nervous,  restless  gaze.  Several  times  she 
scanned  the  audience, — a  fault  so  common  with 
actresses.  I  have  often  deplored  it.  After  a  while 
I  concluded  she  was  looking  for  her  father.  I 


104  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

learned  later  that  he  was  not  in  the  audience  that 
evening.  He  waited  outside  for  his  daughter. 

I  went  home  early.  I  made  no  attempt  to  speak 
with  Miss  Brown.  I  was  disappointed  with  her 
acting  that  night. 

The  next  afternoon  I  was  at  the  house  near 
Fourth  Avenue.  The  servant  led  me  up  the 
stairs  and  to  the  room  on  the  right.  There  was 
no  one  present  as  I  entered.  Hat  in  hand,  I 
stood.  I  waited  five  minutes  —  twenty  minutes. 
I  grew  impatient.  Then  the  door  beyond  opened, 
and  Miss  Brown  walked  in.  She  came  quickly 
across  the  room,  and,  standing  in  front  of  me, 
gazed  at  me  strangely.  I  held  out  my  hand.  She 
grasped  it  with  her  long  fingers,  then  rapidly  with- 
drew them,  and  stood  still  with  her  arms  folded 
behind  her. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Miss  Brown,"  said  I. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  she  replied. 

"  I  must  beg  a  few  moments  of  your  time.  I 
have  come  to  speak  with  you  upon  a  purely  busi- 
ness matter." 

"  Purely  business  matter." 

"Your  father  has  told  you  of  it,"  I  continued. 

"  Father  told  me  a  great  many  things  after  you 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  105 

went  away  yesterday.  I  did  not  believe  a  word 
he  said."  She  walked  to  the  s6fa  and  sat  down 
upon  the  cushioned  arm  in  a  strictly  Bohemian 
fashion. 

"  Have  you  then  so  little  faith  in  him  ? "  I 
asked. 

"Very,  very  little,  while  in  you  I  have  none." 
This  frank  admission  startled  me.  I  wished  my- 
self gone. 

"  In  time  your  faith  may  strengthen,"  I  man- 
aged to  say. 

"  When  ?  " 

"  Miss  Brown,"  said  I,  "  we  must  speak  seri- 
ously. Did  your  father  make  my  proposition 
clear  to  you  ? " 

"  He  said  you  wanted  to  give  me  money.  I 
think  you  have  mistaken  me  for  some  of  your 
more  fashionable  friends."  A  look  of  disdain, 
contempt,  came  into  the  gre6n  eyes,  and  about 
the  corners  of  the  beautiful  mouth.  Such  anger 
was  becoming. 

"I  think  it  is  you,  Miss  Brown,  who  have  mis- 
taken my  fashionable  friends."  I  went  nearer  to 
her.  "Miss  Brown,"  I  continued,  I  spoke  more 
kindly,  "  I  have  simply  offered  to  lend  the  money 


'106  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

to  your  father,  in  order  that  you  may  perfect  your 
talents,  and  become  a  good  actress." 

"  I  prefer  remaining  a  poor  one,  thank  you." 

"But  can  you  not  see  the  folly  of  wasting  your 
time  upon  these  secondary  parts  ?  " 

"I  like  them." 

"  Have  you  no  ambition  ?  " 

"  None."  Astonished,  vexed,  I  turned  away. 
Just  then  through  the  mirror  I  could  see  the  great 
eyes  watching  me  ;  they  seemed  to  pierce  my 
very  thoughts.  I  wheeled  around  suddenly,  but 
the  actress  had  been  too  quick  for  me.  Her  face 
was  in  a  brilliant  smile. 

"  If  I  should  decide  to  accept  this  money,  what 
do  you  require  of  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nothing  but  perseverance  and  work."  She 
knit  her  brows. 

"  Then  I  need  not  fear  the  bargain  ?  "  She 
looked  straight  at  me. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Your  studies  alone  shall 
command  you." 

"  Study  is  no  pleasure." 

"  That  is  true  in  many  cases.  But  once  inter- 
ested in  your  new  pursuits,  you  will  find  pleasure 
even  in  the  tediousness  of  your  labor." 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  IO/ 

"  I  consent  to  your  offer,"  she  said.  She  was 
twisting  the  sofa  fringe  into  a  tight  knot  as  she 
spoke. 

"Very  good,"  I  answered  ;  "and  I  would  ad- 
vise you  to  resign  your  present  role  at  once. 
Next  week  you  can  go  with  your  father  to  a  quiet 
place.  Away  from  the  city  you  can  apply  your- 
self more  thoroughly." 

"  I  would  prefer "  —  Then  she  stopped,  and 
began  to  untwist  the  fringe. 

"  What  would  you  prefer  ?  "  I  asked. 

"A  place  near  the  sea." 

"  I  am  glad  to  know  your  wish.  To-morrow  I 
shall  consult  with  my  friend  ;  he  can  give  us  his 
advice.  If  you  will  kindly  consent  to  accept  what- 
ever play  and  part  he  chooses  for  you,  it  will 
simplify  matters." 

"I  have  preferences." 

"  What  young  woman  has  not  ?  "  I  replied. 

Then  we  shook  hands  for  good-by. 

I  went  out,  leaving  my  respects  for  Mr. 
Brown. 

The  next  morning  I  had  a  long,  satisfactory 
talk  with  the  manager.  He  advised  hard  study. 
He  said  he  would  see  Miss  Brown  within  the 


108  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

week ;   he  kept  his  word.     At  length  everything 
was  arranged. 

Old  Mr.  Brown  and  his  beautiful  daughter  went 
to  the  City-by-the-Sea.  Thus  my  influence  had 
already  told  upon  the  career  of  the  young  actress. 


The  old  man  wrote  to  tell  me  of  their  arrival. 

They  had  a  small,  comfortably  furnished  cottage 
on  an  unfrequented  road.  The  road  stretched 
along  by  the  bay.  The  bay  led  out  into  the  sea. 

Here  Miss  Brown  began  her  studies  ;  she  was 
in  earnest  now. 

Nearly  every  week  I  heard  of  her  improvement. 
The  good,  pure  air  was  very  strengthening  to 
them  both. 

All  went  well.  One  day  I  thought  of  going  to 
the  little  cottage  and  taking  them  by  surprise.  I 
travelled  by  boat  from  New  York. 

Mr.  Brown  was  delighted  at  the  unexpected 
visit ;  his  daughter,  too,  was  pleased..  The  actress 
and  I  spent  those  days  together.  We  took  long 
walks  across  the  country,  returning  by  the  walk 
along  the  cliff.  The  girl  was  vigorous  and  strong. 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  109 

I  asked  her  if  she  missed  her  city  life  with  its 
excitements  and  crowd.  She  glanced  at  me  with 
her  queer  eyes,  then  said,  — 

"Now  I  am  more  satisfied." 

"  You  think  you  will  learn  to  love  your  art  ? " 
I  questioned. 

"  Success  might  make  it  dear  to  me,"  she  said  ; 
"but  now  I  do  not  love  to  study  even  for  my  art." 

I  was  annoyed  ;  I  wanted  my  actress  to  succeed. 

"  You  must  not  allow  yourself  to  be  disap- 
pointed at  first,"  I  said. 

"No,  no,"  she  laughed  ;  "I  still  have  moments 
when  I  like  to  work.  But  sometimes  it  is  so 
difficult  to  struggle  on." 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  I  replied  vaguely.  My  wants 
having  ever  been  gratified,  it  was  only  through 
her  I  learned  the  meaning  of  the  word  effort  — 
effort  for  our  own  ambitions  which  we  love,  we 
value.  For  the  moment  I  thought  I  knew  what 
it  was  to  despair  ;  then  in  an  instant  the  old  long- 
ing came  back  to  me.  In  becoming  an  actor,  my 
life  would  indeed  be  full  complete.  I  envied  the 
girl  as  I  watched  her ;  I  yearned  for  the  fulfilment 
of  my  own  cherished  dreams. 

"  It  is  not  as  if  I   had  never  tried,"  she  went 


1 10  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

on.  "  Father  used  to  think  me  careless  and  idle, 
but  I  was  not.  I  settled  down  to  my  failures  ; 
but  it  took  determination  to  do  it.  I  went  on  as 
if  I  were  satisfied  like  the  actresses  were  who 
succeeded." 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  bearing  failure 
bravely,"  I  said.  "  Perhaps  you  deserved  more 
credit  than  if  you  had  gone  on  hoping  just  the 
same ;  the  noblest  characters  arise  from  strug- 
gling, not  from  success." 

"  But  I  think  it  was  my  envy  of  others  which 
made  me  hard  and  cold.  The  actresses  I  had 
expected  to  surpass  soon  rose  far  above  me  in 
their  theatrical  career.  I  did  not  know  how  to 
push  forward." 

"  How  few  in  the  world  do  !  "  I  answered.  "  But 
are  you  hard  and  cold,  child  ?  I  should  not  have 
thought  it."  She  flushed  and  bit  her  lips  ;  I  saw 
I  had  displeased  her.  She  moved  a  step  away 
from  me,  and,  stooping,  picked  a  daisy  on  the  grass 
near  the  road  ;  she  began  to  pull  off  the  white 
petals  as  she  walked. 

"You  are  only  human,"  I  said;  "you  must 
always  remember  this.  To  surpass  our  neigh- 
bors is  a  common  fault  ;  but  to  succeed,  you  must 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  m 

believe  more  in  yourself,  in  your  talents,  in  your 
rights."  She  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"I  am  not  even  sure  if  I  believe  in  you,"  she 
said.  I  stood  quite  still. 

"Ann!"  I  said,  "this  is  unkind  when  I  have 
put  such  trust  in  you."  She  began  to  repeat 
aloud  the  verses,  "He  loves  me,  he  loves  me  not." 
Slowly,  one  by  one,  she  pulled  the  remaining 
petals  off  the  stem.  "  I  have  always  had  a  super- 
stitious trust  in  flowers,"  she  cried.  She  crushed 
the  little  yellow  centre  of  the  daisy  in  her  hands. 

"  And  what  did  the  daisy  say  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  won't  tell  you." 

"  Is  it  a  secret  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  a  very  great  secret,"  she  cried,  shaking 
her  head  with  its  dusky  curls. 

"  But  you  can  tell  me  what  it  says,"  I  urged. 

"No.  Some  day  perhaps  you  will  find  out." 
I  laughed  and  turned  the  subject  off. 

"  Now,  Miss  Brown,  you  will  study  in  the  future 
all  you  can.  You  are  beginning  over  again  ;  you 
can,  you  must  succeed."  She  laughed  :  her  beau- 
tiful face  was  smiling  as  she  talked. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  try  to  study  hard.  Sometimes 
I  have  moments  when  I  like  to  work,  as  I  told 


112  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

you ;  then  again  I  dream  —  I  dream  of  other 
things." 

"  Do  you  ? "  I  asked. 

"Yes."     Then  she  was  silent. 

"You  must  put  aside  these  dreams,"  I  said. 
She  looked  at  me  wondering. 

"  I  have  dreams  too,"  I  continued  ;  "  but  they 
are  best  unrealized,  unfinished." 

"  Why  ? "    she  asked. 

"Because  some  dreams  are  unsuited  to  us." 
The  girl  seemed  strangely  gay,  I  thought. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  what  your  dreams  were  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  I  want  very  much  to  know." 

"  When  I  tired  of  my  city  life,  my  horses,  my 
carriages,  my  friends,  I  began  to  long  for  some- 
thing different,  something  greater,"  I  replied.  "I 
wanted  new  occupations,  new  interests." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  girl. 

"Then  I  became  much  absorbed  in  your  art. 
I  hoped  to  become  an  actor.  I  read  diligently, 
I  studied  steadily.  I  saw  myself  before  the 
world  in  a  new  career,  before  the  public  in  a 
new  role.  My  conceptions  of  the  stage  were 
great ;  my  ambitions  for  it,  high.  By  persever- 
ance I  knew  I  could  succeed.  Then  my  father 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  113 

heard  of  my  projects.  He  scorned  the  idea  that 
his  son  should  go  upon  the  -stage.  In  this  unfa- 
vorable light  the  old  man  took  pleasure  in  regard- 
ing me,  while  my  sisters  joined  loudly  in  his  cry 
of  horror  and  dismay.  I  saw  it  was  impossible  to 
convince  them,  impossible  to  succeed.  Then  I 
gave  way  to  their  opinions,  and  abandoned  my 
cherished  schemes." 

"It  was  very  foolish  of  you,"  said  Miss  Brown. 
"  You  should  have  asserted  your  independence. 
You  should  not  have  cared  for  those  narrow  criti- 
cisms." I  smiled  sadly  at  her  words. 

"  It  is  a  serious  matter  for  a  man  to  turn  against 
a  rich  parent ;  it  is  wiser  to  sacrifice  one's  dreams 
than  take  such  a  step  as  that." 

"  Oh,  it  was  money  which  made  you  give  way, 
was  it  ?  I  did  not  think  of  that.  See !  "  cried 
the  girl,  turning  hastily  away  from  me,  "  see  those 
stately  ships  far  out  at  sea."  She  pointed  to  the 
horizon.  "Those  smaller  ones  are  yachts,  I  do 
believe." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  sailing  ? "    I  asked. 

"  Yes.  And  I  have  never  been  on  board  one  of 
those  fine  boats  in  my  life." 

"Some  day  I  will  take  you,"  I  said. 


114  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

"  It  will  be  great  fun  to  go  with  you,"  cried  the 
beautiful  girl.  Than  she  was  silent  again.  The 
wind  blew  the  dark  curls  from  her  face.  I  could 
see  the  rich  color  in  her  cheeks.  We  walked 
quickly  :  the  sun  was  sinking  slowly  ;  we  watched 
the  clouds  moving  in  the  west.  The  girl  had  lost 
her  gayety,  her  cheerfulness,  I  thought.  Then  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  cottage,  and  she  went  in  to 
join  her  father. 

In  a  few  days  I  returned  to  New  York.  Soon  I 
became  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  there, 
but  I  never  forgot  the  Browns. 


One  day,  as  I  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue,  whom 
should  I  meet  hurrying  along  the  crowded  street 
but  Miss  Brown  !  She  was  alone.  I  raised  my 
hat  as  I  approached.  She  held  out  her  hand  to 
me ;  her  beautiful  face  was  radiant  with  smiles. 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  "  she  cried. 

"What  brings  you  to  New  York  ? "    said  I. 

"  Business." 

"  Theatrical  business  ? " 

"Yes.  I  came  to  consult  the  manager.  I 
return  this  afternoon  to  my  father." 


A    MODERN  A  CTRESS.  1 1 5 

"  You  came  to  New  York  alone  ?  " 

"  Quite  alone,"  said  Miss  Brown  with  arch 
simplicity.  As  we  talked  we  moved  on  down  the 
avenue.  Men  touched  their  hats  to  me ;  women 
bowed  their  heads.  I  felt  my  face  flush  as  I 
became  conscious  of  their  glances  at  my  com- 
panion. 

"  Let  us  turn  now,"  said  I  to  her. 

She  looked  at  me,  a  strange  expression  in  her 
face  and  in  her  glance. 

"  I  prefer  to  walk  on  Fifth  Avenue,"  she  said. 
"  And  I  am  hungry." 

"  Is  there  any  place  where  I  can  take  you  to 
relieve  your  pangs  of  hunger?"  I  inquired. 

"To  Delmonico's.  Take  me  to  Delmonico's  !  " 
exclaimed  the  girl,  clasping  her  hands  with  pleas- 
ure at  the  thought. 

"  To  Delmonico's  !  "  I  repeated,  dazed  at  the 
very  idea. 

"Yes,"  cried  Miss  Brown.     I  laughed  outright. 

"  Miss  Brown,  I  must  refuse  to  take  you  there." 

"  Why  ? "    she  asked.    . 

"  For  many  reasons.  But  more  particularly 
because  this  is  the  fashionable  hour.  Every  table 
would  be  engaged." 


Il6  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

11  By  fashionable  people  ?  "    she  inquired. 

Then  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  me  with  a  look 
of  scorn.  I  had  not  meant  to  use  that  adjective; 
it  had  slipped  from  me  unawares. 

"I  seldom  go  to  that  restaurant  with  young 
ladies,"  I  said. 

"  Make  no  excuses,"  cried  she.  But  I  de- 
tected a  shade  of  disappointment  in  the  fair 
young  face. 

"You  see,  Miss  Brown,"  I  went  on,  "it  is  cus- 
tomary for  young  ladies  like  yourself  to  be  chap- 
eroned." She  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  If  father  were  here,  would  you  take  us  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Yes."  She  threw  at  me  a  look  which 
might  mean  dislike,  distrust ;  but  I  gave  no  heed 
to  it. 

"Which  way  were  you  going  when  I  joined 
you  ? "  I  asked. 

"To  the  boat." 

"It  does  not  start  for  two  hours,"  I  replied. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  satisfy  my  appetite  on  board," 
said  the  actress.  Again  she  looked  at  me  steadily. 
I  lowered  my  lashes.  I  did  not  wish  to  read  her 
thought. 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  1 1/ 

We  walked  on  in  silence.  I  drew  a  breath  of 
relief  as  we  left  the  avenue. 

Soon  we  reached  the  elevated  road.  A  brief 
ten  minutes  brought  us  to  our  station.  We  went 
down  the  long  flight  of  steps  into  the  street.  I 
gave  Miss  Brown  my  arm  to  guide  her  through 
the  crowd.  At  length  we  reached  the  boat.  I 
offered  to  make  inquiries  about  luncheon,  but 
Miss  Brown  said  she  did  not  wish  to  eat  any- 
thing. 

"  I  thought  you  were  so  hungry  !  "    I  exclaimed. 

"  I  was  joking  all  the  time.  But  you  were  too 
stupid  to  see  my  wit." 

"  I  do  not  call  that  wit,"  said  I,  angry  at  the 
girl's  strange  ways. 

I  waited  an  hour  on  the  deck  with  my  young 
charge.  I  had  an  engagement  at  the  Club.  Each 
minute  added  to  my  impatience,  to  my  discomfort. 
She  talked  on  incessantly.  I  had  no  opportunity 
for  escape.  It  was  not  until  the  gong  sounded  for 
"  all  on  shore,"  that  I  raised  my  hat  for  good-by. 
Miss  Brown  held  out  her  hand  to  me ;  her  beauti- 
ful face  was  strangely  pale. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said. 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,"  I  said. 


Il8  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  beautiful 
face  just  then.  I  felt  myself  something  of  a 
coward  as  I  turned  away. 

"  I  will  come  and  see  you  soon,"  I  called  to  her. 


Five  weeks  passed  before  I  could  arrange  for 
my  next  trip  to  the  City-by-the-Sea. 

Three  days  before  starting  I  wrote  to  Mr. 
Brown  that  I  would  arrive  the  following  Tuesday 
by  the  afternoon  boat.  As  he  did  not  answer  the 
letter,  I  concluded  he  had  not  received  it. 

At  length  the  day  came.  On  the  boat  I  met 
the  daughter  of  one  of  my  father's  richest  friends. 
She  was  travelling  alone  with  her  maid.  We  were 
old  acquaintances.  I  begged  her  to  regard  me  as 
a  chaperon.  She  did  so.  As  the  steamer  neared 
her  dock,  it  grew  too  dark  to  distinguish  the 
figures  on  the  landing.  I  noticed  a  rough  crowd. 
I  offered  my  protection  to  the  rich  girl.  Together 
we  stepped  on  land.  A  high  wind  blew  off  the 
sea.  We  felt  the  change  from  New  York ;  we 
were  jolted  and  pushed  by  the  noisy  crowd.  I 
kept  my  companion's  arm  safe  within  mine.  I 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  I  If) 

guided  her  to  her  carriage.  Just  as  I  raised  my 
hat  and  made  my  parting  bow,  a  figure  darted 
forward  and  two  slender  hands  grasped  my  arm. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  so  long  for  you  ! "  cried 
the  breathless  voice.  I  turned  sharply.  I  tried 
to  disengage  my  arm. 

"  I  began  to  fear  you  would  not  come,"  the 
voice  continued,  "and  the  dock  was  cold  and 
dreary."  I  bent  my  head  in  the  deepening 
shadows.  I  saw  two  greenish-blue  eyes  looking 
at  me. 

"Miss  Brown,"  I  cried,  "what  brought  you 
here  ?  This  is  no  fit  place  for  you  !  " 

"  I  came  to  meet  you." 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter  ? "  I  asked 
sharply. 

"  Nothing." 

"  No  illness  —  your  father  is  well  ? " 

"Very  well."  We  hurried  on  in  silence.  At 
length  the  girl  spoke  again. 

"  I  watched  the  boat  coming  in  the  distance," 
she  said.  "  It  grew  larger  and  larger  each 
moment.  I  tried  to  distinguish  you  among  the 
passengers  on  deck,  but  it  got  dark  too  quickly 
and  I  could  not  see." 


120  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

"  I  was  sitting  in  the  stern,"  I  said. 

"  Did  you  find  the  time  very  long  ?  " 

"  No.  I  met  with  friends."  The  fingers  tight- 
ened their  hold  on  my  sleeve. 

"  Fashionable  friends  ?  " 

"  Fashionable  friends,"  I  repeated. 

"  Was  the  pretty  lady  you  were  with  when  you 
came  on  shore  one  of  them  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  I  thought  so,"  murmured  Miss  Brown. 

After  a  while  we  came  in  sight  of  the  little  cot- 
tage on  the  road,  near  the  bay. 

Mr.  Brown  greeted  me  \varmly  as  I  entered, 
asking  me  to  stay  all  night.  I  refused.  "  The 
hotel  room  was  waiting  for  me,"  I  said. 

Later  the  actress  stepped  out  on  the  low 
piazza,  and  resting  her  slender  figure  against 
the  wooden  railings,  gazed  far  out  to  the  sea.  I 
watched  her  eagerly.  She  was  very  beautiful 
that  night. 

Old  Mr.  Brown  smoked  a  cigar  with  me.  We 
looked  at  the  stars  fining  one  after  another  into 
the  vast  heavens.  The  pale  yellow  moon  rose 
high  above  the  calm  waters.  I  felt  strangely 
quiet,  strangely  at  peace. 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  121 

At  eleven  o'clock  I  went  to  my  hotel.  My 
thoughts  lingered  behind  with  the  sea. 

The  next  day  I  walked  about  the  town.  I  met 
friends.  One  invited  me  to  luncheon,  others  to 
dinner,  to  tea.  I  accepted  all  the  invitations  I 
could.  Late  in  the  evening  I  excused  myself, 
and  started  off  by  a  lonely  road  to  pay  my  visit 
to  the  Browns. 

Mr.  Brown  was  out.  As  I  approached  I  saw 
the  young  actress  seated  in  the  parlor  at  a  table 
near  the  lamp.  She  was  hard  at  work,  I  thought. 
I  must  have  frightened  her,  for  she  started  up 
nervously  as  I  entered. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said  ;  "  I  came  in  with- 
out ringing.  I  did  not  mean  to  surprise  you." 
She  laughed  and  said,  — 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  coming.  It  is  very 
late."  I  walked  over  to  the  table  where  she  sat. 
She  looked  up  at  me  startled.  Her  face  grew  red, 
then  white.  I  picked  up  the  book  she  was  reading. 

"Your  lines  are  difficult,"  I  said. 

"  Sometimes  I  learn  them  easily,"  she  answered, 
"sometimes  not  so  well." 

"  Have  you  grown  tired  ? "  I  asked,  bending 
over  her  beautiful  head. 


122  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured.  I  watched  her  taper 
fingers  playing  with  the  corners  of  her  book.  No 
jewel  adorned  the  white  throat,  the  small  ears. 
Her  dress  was  plain  and  badly  cut. 

"Miss  Brown,"  I  began,  then  turning  shortly 
I  walked  away.  I  moved  a  chair  to  the  window,  I 
sat  down.  I  buried  my  face  for  a  moment  in  my 
hands.  I  suffered.  Could  I  love  you,  I  won- 
dered, love  your  beauty  always  ?  Then  with  an 
effort  I  raised  my  head.  The  light  was  falling  on 
Miss  Brown's  face,  her  eyes  were  strangely  larger 
owing  to  it.  With  a  quick  movement  she  rose 
and  threw  her  book  aside.  Then  rushing  to  me 
she  knelt  down  at  my  side. 

"  You  are  unhappy,"  she  cried.  "  I  knew  it 
yesterday."  The  curly  head  came  nearer  to  my 
arm.  "  Can  I  help  you  ?  Please  let  me  try  ? " 

"  No,  no,"  I  said. 

"  Is  it  the  world  ?  "  she  cried.  "  I  knew  it  was 
filled  with  wickedness." 

"  May  you  learn  no  more  of  it,"  I  solemnly 
said. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  she  cried  again.  "  I 
believe  if  you  were  to  tell  me  I  could  really 
understand ! " 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  123 

"  No,  no ;  you  cannot,"  I  said.  Then  the 
green  eyes  filled  with  blinding,  rushing  tears. 
She  bowed  her  head,  she  wept.  I  tried  my  best 
to  comfort  her.  I  scarcely  knew  what  to  say. 
The  sobs  came  quicker,  louder.  My  efforts  were 
in  vain. 

"  You  must  control  yourself,"  I  said.  I  dared 
not  ask  her  why  she  wept.  I  knew  the  reason 
well.  She  loved  me !  But  what  could  her  love 
do  for  me  ?  Poor,  honest,  trusting  girl,  thought 
I.  I  pushed  her  gently  from  me.  With  a  cry 
like  one  in  pain  she  rose  to  her  feet.  Going  to 
the  table  she  snatched  the  play-book  lying  there. 
She  tore  it  into  twenty  pieces,  then  stamped  upon 
them  with  her  feet. 

"  I  hate  those  lines,"  she  cried.  "  I  would 
renounce  them  all  —  if  —  if" —  A  noise  outside 
cut  short  her  sentence.  She  stopped  and  trem- 
bled. I  got  up  quickly.  I  looked  out. 

"Your  father  is  coming,"  I  said.  She  threw 
herself  upon  the  sofa  like  a  disappointed  child. 

As  Mr.  Brown  entered  the  room  the  girl  darted 
by  him  and  out  the  door ;  on  she  ran  far  down  the 
dark  road  which  overlooked  the  sea. 

He  asked  me  to  come  out  and  see  the  view  :  the 


124  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

sky  was  dark  and  lowering.  I  watched  the  tall, 
slim  figure  until  it  disappeared  from  sight. 

I  went  back  to  the  hotel  at  midnight.  Before 
retiring  I  re-packed  my  trunk.  I  returned  to 
New  York  by  the  morning  boat. 

I  felt  relieved  as  I  came  in  sight  of  the  busy 
city,  far  away  from  the  young  actress,  her 
struggles,  her  hopes,  her  life.  It  was  well  for  me, 
I  thought.  Such  a  woman  could  never  satisfy  the 
society  in  which  I  lived.  Unhappiness,  disap- 
pointment, would  surely  follow  such  a  union  even 
to  the  end. 

I  felt  sorry  for  her  too  as  the  weeks  crept  by, 
and  I  thought  of  her  with  her  wild  nature,  her 
great  heart.  Were  many  women  to  be  found  like 
her  ?  I  wrote  to  the  old  man  several  times. 
Only  once  did  I  receive  an  answer.  He  said  his 
daughter  had  gone  to  New  York  to  see  the  man- 
ager. He  said  many  encouraging  things  of  her 
improvement  in  her  work. 


Three  months  had   elapsed   since  my  visit  to 
the  Browns.     I  would  have  yielded  to  my  desire 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  12$ 

and  gone  back  that  spring,  I  believe,  had  not  my 
physician  suggested  a  flying  trip  abroad.  Wise 
man,  thought  I,  change  will  restore  my  health, 
will  also  benefit  my  future.  The  swift  tide  of 
temptation  was  rushing  out  to  sea.  The  strong 
current  of  love  was  carrying  me  to  the  spot  from 
which  I  would  fly,  from  which  I  would  escape. 
Too  well  I  realized  my  own  weakness,  too  well 
I  realized  my  heart's  strength. 

I  would  do  well  to  leave  the  actress,  to  leave 
the  land  in  which  she  dwelt. 

I  wrote  her  a  short  note ;  I  said  but  little  —  I 
merely  stated  my  plan  to  go  abroad.  I  begged 
her  to  study  during  my  absence  to  succeed  on  my 
return.  She  sent  me  a  curt  answer,  wishing  me  a 
pleasant  journey.  I  believe  I  was  disappointed 
when  I  had  finished  it. 

I  found  the  sea  very  strengthening,  the  variety 
very  pleasing.  The  voyage  came  to  an  end  much 
sooner  than  I  would  wish. 

In  Havre  I  became  greatly  interested  in  the 
old  town,  with  its  queer  buildings,  its  quaint 
streets.  I  hurried  on  to  Paris  —  Paris  with  its 
passing  glory,  its  dazzling  glitter.  Who  could 
fail  to  enjoy  its  amusements,  its  pleasures  ? 


126  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

I  fell  in  with  some  American  friends.  They 
soon  made  me  one  of  them,  at  home  in  the 
foreign  city. 

We  went  from  cafe  to  cafe,  from  boulevard  to 
boulevard,  from  garden  to  garden,  drinking  in  the 
delights  of  that  fair  city. 

Nine  months  later  I  left  Paris.  I  travelled  fast. 
I  saw  many  things,  —  things  which  distracted  my 
thoughts,  my  brain.  But  one  day  I  read  in  the 
American  news  of  the  debut  of  a  young  actress. 
My  mind  flew  back  to  the  beautiful  girl  whose 
career  had  been  so  much  to  me.  Success  ! 
Success  !  My  hopes  had  been  realized,  my  ideas 
fulfilled.  I  longed  to  return  to  New  York,  but  I 
felt  myself  quite  unequal  to  the  task  which 
awaited  me.  To  see  Miss  Brown,  to  hear  her 
voice,  was  denied  my  life  just  then.  "  Travel  in 
the  opposite  direction !  Travel  fast,"  whispered 
a  voice  in  my  ears. 

I  did  travel  fast.  I  saw  much.  Going  to 
Dresden  I  settled  down  there  for  an  indefinite 
time.  The  life  was  not  Parisian.  I  missed  the 
bright  French  city,  with  its  gayly  dressed  people, 
its  crowds,  its  lights. 

At  length  I  returned  to  France.     A  few  days 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  I2/ 

of  journeying  through  the  old  towns  and  again 
I  was  in  Paris.  Paris  !  There  is  but  one  Paris  !  I 
hurried  about  the  galleries,  the  theatres  ;  my  days 
were  fully  occupied.  I  saw  no  actress  to  compare 
with  Miss  Brown. 

Thus  the  time  passed  until  my  father  wrote  for 
my  return.  "  I  wish  you  to  come  immediately," 
his  letter  read. 

I  knew  not  if  it  were  with  sad  heart  or 
gay  that  I  made  my  preparations  to  return  to 
America. 

But  at  last  I  was  ploughing  the  waves  in  the 
great  ocean  steamer.  Home  !  I  only  half-real- 
ized that  Europe  was  behind  me  in  those  fast- 
receding  shores. 

As  the  noble  ship  sped  on  I  began  to  feel  like 
an  American  again.  She  rocked,  she  struggled 
through  the  dark  blue  seas.  Each  moment  her 
passengers  came  nearer  to  the  other  shores. 

I  began  to  grow  more  accustomed  to  the 
thought  of  America  as  Europe  faded  in  my 
thoughts. 

Then  the  week  ended.  My  journey  came  to  its 
close. 

I   had   been  in    Europe  two    years,  —  months 


128  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

longer  than  I  had  intended.  Was  I  glad  to  reach 
New  York  ? 

As  I  went  about  the  city,  my  friends  stopped 
me  at  every  corner,  every  turn.  I  was  welcome 
home.  I  had  much  to  do  those  first  days  of  my 
arrival,  —  notes  to  answer,  letters  to  read. 

Among  my  correspondence  I  found  a  line  from 
the  manager,  begging  me  to  stop  in  at  his  theatre 
any  evening  that  week. 

"  Miss  Brown  is  a  great  success,"  he  wrote. 

Friday  came  before  I  had  a  chance  to  see  the 
young  actress  in  her  new  role. 

Again  I  was  seated  before  the  stage  on  which 
she  would  appear.  I  remembered  well  the  first 
night  I  noticed  her.  Her  queer  eyes  haunt  me 
me  now.  As  the  curtain  rose,  my  heart  beat  fast. 
I  leaned  forward.  I  scanned  the  actresses  going 
through  their  parts.  Miss  Brown  did  not  appear. 
Eager,  breathless,  I  waited.  At  every  sound  my 
pulse  beat  faster,  my  heart  thumped  harder.  I 
heard  a  murmur,  an  applaus~e.  Miss  Brown  was  be- 
fore me.  I  sought  her  face  ;  her  glance  met  mine. 
Once,  only  once,  she  looked  straight  at  me.  I 
noted  the  richness  of  her  gown.  She  had  diamonds 
at  her  throat,  jewels  flashing  in  her  dark  hair. 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  129 

Later  I  hurried  behind  the  scenes  to  speak  to 
her.  She  came  into  the  little  room  where  I  sat 
waiting.  As  I  rose  she  held  out  her  slender 
hand.  I  grasped  it.  I  looked  at  her  an  instant. 
I  bowed  before  her  as  a  man  would  bow  to  a 
queen.  I  had  barely  touched  her  long  fingers,  for 
she  moved  away  instantly,  and  stood  erect  against 
the  curtain  at  the  door. 

"  Miss  Brown,"  said  I,  "  my  prophecy  has  come 
true."  She  inclined  her  head  like  a  graceful 
swan. 

"  I  have  conquered,  you  mean."  Her  voice 
sounded  like  music  in  my  ears. 

"  You  deserve  much  credit,"  I  answered.  My 
heart  was  fluttering.  I  felt  strangely  awkward  in 
the  presence  of  the  young  actress.  Our  old 
friendship  seemed  broken  and  away.  I  watched 
her  as  she  drew  on  her  long  gloves  in  readiness 
for  the  next  act. 

"  I  have  not  seen  your  father,"  I  said,  anxious 
to  break  the  silence.  She  drew  aside  the  curtain. 
Touching  the  bell  a  servant  appeared. 

"  Find  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said.  At  that  moment 
her  call  came.  She  bowed  to  me,  then  hurried 
to  the  stage. 


130  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

I  felt  that  I  had  lost  her,  —  lost  her  indeed. 

She  had  not  even  mentioned  my  absence,  my 
return. 

I  had  a  brief  conversation  with  her  father.  He 
was  greatly  interested  now  in  his  daughter's 
career. 

"  She  studied  hard,"  he  said.  "  She  has  pluck  ; 
there's  no  doubt  of  that." 

"  Was  it  not  I  who  saw  all  this  long  ago  ? "  I 
exclaimed,  nettled  by  the  old  man's  indifference 
toward  me  in  the  matter. 

"  Yes,  yes  —  the  money.  I  remember  you  lent 
the  money." 

"The  loan  is  a  small  part  of  the  affair,"  I 
replied. 

"  But  the  actress  has  not  forgotten  it.  Not  she, 
sir.  Only  last  week  she  asked  me  to  pay  you 
back." 

"The  payment  can  come  later,"  I  said. 

"  So  I  told  my  lass.  But  she  is  firm.  You 
must  pay  him,  father,  says  she ;  you  must  pay  him 
now." 

"  I  am  in  no  hurry,  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Brown,"  I 
declared.  I  was  disappointed,  hurt,  at  the  purely 
business  way  the  old  man  had  regarded  me. 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  131 

Surely  I  had  done  for  them  what  money  could  not 
do.  I  had  spoken  in  the  girl's  favor  to  one  of  the 
most  influential  men  in  theatrical  circles.  I  had 
been  the  direct  cause  of  Miss  Brown's  success. 

"  I  told  you  long  ago  I  would  make  your  daugh- 
ter a  great  actress,"  I  said. 

"  You  were  right,  quite  right,  sir,"  replied  Mr. 
Brown.  He  looked  at  me  with  that  absent  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes.  Then  he  shook  hands  for 
good-by.  "  My  daughter  has  talent,  —  real  talent," 
he  repeated,  as  he  held  the  door  open  for  me  to 
pass  out. 

I  went  back  to  my  seat  in  the  theatre,  disgusted 
with  myself  and  the  world. 

Yet  I  was  present  at  every  performance  after 
that.  I  never  missed  a  night. 

One  Sunday  I  met  the  Browns  driving  in  the 
Park.  As  I  bowed  a  man  on  the  front  seat  of 
their  carriage  raised  his  hat  to  me.  I  recognized 
the  manager. 

Soon  New  York  took  up  the  praise  of  the 
young  actress.  She  was  courted  and  sought  by 
critics,  and  even  literary  men.  The  more  con- 
servative sets  gathered  up  their  skirts  as  she  came 
near,  least  they  might  be  seen  on  friendly  terms 


132  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

with  the  actress.  But  Miss  Brown  had  plenty  of 
invitations  for  all  that. 

One  evening  I  saw  her  at  a  Musicale.  I  stood 
aside  to  watch  her  manners,  her  ways.  The 
costly  gown  proved  suitable  for  the  stately  pose, 
the  slender  figure.  She  stood  in  the  midst  of 
these,  —  my  fashionable  friends,  — her  dark  head 
thrown  back,  her  throat  white  like  marble.  I 
looked,  but  in  vain,  for  the  wayward  girl  I  had 
once  known.  She  had  vanished.  I  knew  not 
where.  "The  accursed  world,"  I  muttered,  "has 
clasped  its  golden  fetters  around  you  too,  destroy- 
ing your  fair  beauty,  your  sweet  youth  !  Yes,  the 
same  world  which  kept  me  from  you  that  night 
when  joy  and  love  and  happiness  beckoned  me  to 
its  peace.  Those  same  golden  fetters  —  fetters  of 
criticism,  fetters  of  fashion,  divide  my  love  from 
me." 

I  strode  away,  sick  at  heart  and  weary. 

Zhe  next  morning  the  mail  brought  me  a  check 
from  Mr.  Brown.  "  I  return  you  my  share  of  our 
debt,"  he  wrote.  I  took  the  small  slip  of  pink 
paper;  it  flickered  and  trembled  as  I  held  it  up 
between  my  fingers. 

"  Yes,  your  debt  is  paid,"  I  muttered  as  I  tore 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  133 

the  check  in  two  and  threw  my  credit  into  the 
waste-basket. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  I  learned  the  actress' 
plans.  She  was  to  make  a  tour  of  the  States 
before  sailing  for  Europe  for  her  debut  there. 

The  news  was  very  unexpected,  very  sudden,  to 
me.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  expected  it,  but 
I  was  completely  taken  by  surprise.  For  several 
days  I  was  quite  unlike  myself  —  "  Cross  and  out 
of  sorts,"  my  sisters  said. 

One  night,  as  I  sat  in  my  accustomed  place 
before  the  stage,  I  noticed  Miss  Brown  turned 
her  wondering  eyes  upon  me.  She  looked  once, 
twice,  three  times.  But  I  read,  like  a  flash  from 
the  past,  an  expression  of  sadness,  of  longing  in 
her  face.  Even  in  the  most  tragic  parts  of  her 
acting  I  had  often  missed  it.  My  mind  became 
disturbed,  my  thoughts  distracted.  I  saw  the 
young  woman  a  genius  before  me,  possessing 
those  very  talents  I  had  so  long,  so  diligently 
sought.  Her  beauty  was  superb,  her  grace  exqui- 
site. In  her  acting  she  was  no  longer  a  player 
going  through  her  part,  but  a  woman  struggling 
with  her  fate,  her  life.  I  saw  the  deep  color  in 
her  cheeks,  the-  wild  throbbing  in  her  heart.  As 


134  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

the  actress  she  would  save  her  lover ;  for  him  she 
would  renounce  all  things.  She  was  the  one 
being  who  could  restore  his  happiness,  his  peace. 
She  bent  down  over  the  young  actor.  How  near 
her  pure  face  was  to  his  brow  ! 

"This  is  true  love,"  she  breathed,  "to  be  with 
you  forever."  He  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  into 
her  beautiful  face. 

"  For  me  you  would  do  all  this  ? "  he  cried. 

"  For  you  I  do  renounce  my  hopes,  my  ambi- 
tions. You  are  my  life  !  " 

"  Is  your  world  so  little  to  you  in  comparison  ?  " 
he  asked.  For  answer  she  twined  her  arms  about 
his  neck. 

"  Do  you  realize  the  sacrifice  ? " 

"  In  love  there  is  no  sacrifice,"  she  whispered. 

"  How  noble,  how  good  !  "  he  cried. 

"  Hush,  hush,"  breathed  the  beautiful  woman. 
Then  on  his  breast  she  bowed  her  head.  The 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  they  rested  on  her 
dark  lashes  which  swept  against  his  arm.  Upon 
her  sacrifice,  upon  his  joy,  the  curtain  fell. 

I  sighed.  In  such  acting  there  is  great  art. 
The  actress  had  indeed  lived  through  her  part  in 
the  reality  of  what  she  played.  I  longed  to  speak 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  135 

to  the  beautiful  woman,  to  praise  her  conceptions, 
her  talents. 

I  made  my  way  through  the  audience  ;  amongst 
those  people  there  was  no  sound.  In  silence  they 
left  the  theatre,  in  wonderment  they  went  home. 

I  hurried  behind  the  scenes ;  I  sent  in  my  card. 

Miss  Brown  came  very  soon.  I  looked  in  her 
face  for  the  traces  of  her  sorrow,  of  her  tears. 
They  had  vanished  !  It  was  really  acting,  then  ? 
I  had  thought  to  find  it  easy  to  speak  with  her, 
she  had  seemed  so  near  me  when  on  the  stage. 
Now,  standing  in  her  presence,  I  was  confused, 
dumb. 

"  You  want  to  see  me  ? "  she  asked. 

She  took  up  her  old  position  against  the  dark 
curtain  near  the  door. 

"Yes."  I  paused.  I  hoped  she  would  help  me 
by  a  sign,  a  word ;  but  she  only  turned  her  gaze 
upon  me  in  silence  and  disdain. 

"Miss  Brown,"  I  went  on,  "you  will  turn  your 
thoughts  for  a  moment  from  the  past  to  the  pres- 
ent, and  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  any  surprise 
to  you  in  what  I  wish  to  say." 

"  You  wish  to  speak  about  the  check,"  she  in- 
terrupted. "  I  thought  my  father  had  already 


136  A    MODERN  ACTRESS. 

sent  it  to  you.  By  making  an  arrangement  with 
my  manager  I  was  enabled  to  receive  part  of  my 
salary  in  advance."  The  color  rose  to  my  fore- 
head, the  flush  of  anger  rushed  to  my  face. 

"  No  ;  the  check  you  speak  of  is  of  little  value. 
The  loan  I  made  your  father  was  for  friendship, 
not  for  gain." 

"  For  fashionable  friendship  ? "  asked  the  ac- 
tress, raising  her  brows  as  she  spoke. 

"  No,"  I  cried.  "  My  list  of  fashionable  friends 
is  closed  just  now."  She  bit  her  lips  and  frowned. 

"  So  is  mine,"  she  said.  The  ghost  of  a  smile 
came  into  her  beautiful  face. 

"  I  am  glad  that  New  York  figures  on  yours," 
said  I. 

She  looked  straight  at  me  ;  my  eyes  fell  before 
her  searching  glance. 

"  I  find  these  people  like  me  better,  respect  me 
more,  than  you  thought  they  would  in  the  past 
gone  by." 

I  turned  indignant  to  the  young  actress.  Her 
words  cut  me  deep.  Too  true  had  been  my  mis- 
givings, my  fears  of  New  York's  criticisms  upon 
her  long  ago. 

"  Miss  Brown,"  said  I,  "  forget  the  past ;  it  is 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  Itf 

nothing  to  us  now.     I  have  come  to  beg  this  of 
you." 

"I  have  forgotten  what  is  finished  of  it,"  she 
said,  "but  the  memory  comes  back  sometimes, 
even  when  I  would  forget  it  all." 

"  I  suppose  it  does,"  I  answered,  holding  out 
my  hand.  She  touched  me  with  her  slender  fin- 
gers as  she  bade  me  good-by. 

She  did  not  ask  me  to  remain. 

"Good-by,"  I  replied  shortly,  bitterly.  Then  I 
turned  and  went  away.  It  was  useless  to  argue 
with  so  proud,  so  strong,  so  talented  a  woman. 

Not  long  after  this  unsatisfactory  interview 
with  Miss  Brown,  my  elder  sister  went  to  a  lun- 
cheon to  meet  the  young  actress.  She  was  not 
interested  in  her  beauty,  and  expressed  her  opin- 
ion against  receiving  actresses  in  society. 

"  Some   young   society  man  will   marry  her,   I  * 
suppose,"  she  said,  "horrify  his  good  people  by 
conferring   their  honored  name  on  such  an  ordi- 
nary woman." 

"  Miss  Brown  is  not  ordinary,"  said  I  sharply. 
"  If  more  women  in  society  were  like  her,  it  would 
be  a  better  world  to  mix  in." 

"Oh,    so    you    are    fascinated    by    this    new 


138  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

beauty  !  "  she  cried.  "  You  are  the  first  Lynton 
to  acknowledge  such  a  fact.  Your  taste  is  bad, 
dear  fellow." 

"  I  am  a  better  judge  of  Miss  Brown's  beauty 
than  you  are,  mademoiselle,"  I  replied  hotly. 

"  No  doubt,"  answered  Miss  Lynton.  "  I  do 
not  belong  to  the  theatrical  world.  But,  my  dear 
brother,  if  you  could  hear  some  of  our  leaders  of 
New  York  society  on  the  subject  of  entertaining 
actresses,  you  might  think  it  foolish  to  be  fasci- 
nated by  a  pair  of  green  eyes." 

But  I  was  fascinated  by  those  eyes,  more  fasci- 
nated than  I  cared  to  admit.  I  made  no  attempt 
to  speak  with  Miss  Brown  again  before  her  de- 
parture from  New  York.  I  felt  the  sting  of  that 
last  meeting  too  keenly  to  wish  for  a  renewal  of 
it. 

Mr.  and  Miss  Brown  went  first  to  Philadelphia. 
Two  weeks  later  I  read  of  their  presence  in 
Washington,  from  which  place  they  would  journey 
for  two  private  performances  to  the  City-by-the- 
Sea.  I  must  see  her  the  night  she  played  there. 
It  would  be  at  a  fashionable  house.  I  could  not 
stay  away. 

I  took  the  boat  from    New  York,   arriving  in 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  139 

good  time  on  the  day  of  the  Browns'  expected 
arrival. 

I  wandered  round  alone  during  the  morning. 
In  the  afternoon  I  called  on  the  actress  at  her 
hotel.  Mr.  Brown  received  me.  He  said  his 
daughter  had  gone  out  for  a  walk. 

"  Which  way  ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  guess  you  will  find  her  down  by  the  sea," 
said  the  old  man. 

I  hurried  out.  I  followed  the  road  by  the  bay 
until  I  reached  the  walk  leading  to  the  cliff.  I 
strained  my  eyes,  I  watched  every  figure  in  the 
far  distance. 

I  was  in  luck.  As  I  neared  the  sea  I  caught 
sight  of  a  tall  figure  standing  on  the  rocks.  Has- 
tening my  steps  I  soon  joined  her.  She  laughed 
joyously  as  I  came  to  her  side. 

I  made  no  excuse  for  my  presence  ;  she  needed 
none.  It  seemed  so  natural  that  we  should  be 
together  when  in  the  City-by-the-Sea. 

"  Miss  Brown,"  said  I,  "  this  is  much  better 
than  New  York." 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  both  love  the  sea,"  she  cried. 

"  I  thought  you  loved  it  long  ago,"  I  said. 

"  Ah,  yes.     The  sea,  the  beautiful,  cruel   sea. 


140  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

I  like  to  watch  the  waves  roll  on.  I  wonder  do 
they  reach  eternity  ?  Look !  They  are  rolling 
quickly  now." 

"  I  should  like  to  make  my  home  beside  these 
moving  waters." 

"  So  would  I."  She  moved  nearer  to  me.  I 
held  out  my  hand  to  prevent  her  feet  from  slip- 
ping on  the  dampness  of  the  rocks.  The  winds 
blew  round  us,  whispering  their  dull  music  in 
our  ears. 

"  Miss  Brown,"  said  I,  "  have  you  really  decided 
to  go  abroad  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  I  wanted  her  to  look  at 
me,  but  her  glance  was  far  away,  watching  the 
horizon  of  the  moving  waters. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  go,"  said  I. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked,  her  eyes  meeting  mine. 

"  Because  I  love  you."  The  words  were  very 
few,  very  simple,  as  I  uttered  them,  but  I  think 
she  understood. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  she  murmured. 

"  I  think  it  is  no  new  story  in  our  lives,"  I 
repeated. 

Her  slight  frame  swayed  a  moment  as  the  wind 
sighed  round  us. 


A   MODERN  ACTRESS.  141 

"  I  loved  you  once,"  she  said  ;  "  I  believe  you 
knew  it  then,  but  I  was  so  impetuous,  so  young,  I 
scarce  knew  how  to  hide  my  thoughts  from  you. 
The  first  time  I  saw  you  I  felt  your  influence, 
your  presence.  Why  did  I  leave  New  York  ? 
because  you  told  me  to  go !  Why  did  I  study  ? 
because  you  bade  me  study !  Why  did  I  strug- 
gle ?  because  you  gave  me  hope  !  It  was  for 
your  praise  I  longed  ;  for  your  satisfaction  I 
worked  !  But  just  when  I  needed  advice  —  needed 
it  to  give  me  courage,  to  give  me  strength  — 
you  went  away,  with  just  a  line,  just  a  word, 
You  crossed  the  wide  ocean ;  you  travelled  fast. 
You  forgot  America.  You  forgot  the  actress ; 
you  forgot  her  career.  A  little  while  I  brooded 
over  your  absence,  your  silence.  What  had  I 
done  ?  In  what  had  I  been  in  fault  towards  you  ? 
Then  with  a  struggle  I  put  the  question  unan- 
swered from  me.  I  turned  over  a  new  leaf  in  my 
thoughtless  life.  I  studied,  I  worked,  I  hoped  — 
alone.  On  our  return  to  New  York  I  did  not  lose 
a  moment.  I  never  missed  my  rehearsal,  my  part. 
I  became  interested,  enthusiastic,  in  my  success, 
in  my  career.  I  dreamed  of  my  ambitions,  my 
triumphs.  I  learned  to  forget  many  things,  my 


142  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

failures,  my  disappointments,  my  past.  But  great- 
est of  all  I  learned  to  forget  you." 

"  Ann,"  I  cried,  "  let  us  understand  each  other. 
I  have  come  back  now.  I  want  you.  I  need  you. 
Promise  to  be  my  wife."  The  sea  moaned  and 
roared  as  I  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"  No,"  she  cried. 

"  No  !  "  Why  do  you  say  this  ?  Surely,  if  you 
cared  for  my  praise,  for  my  satisfaction  once,  you 
cannot  so  easily  do  without  me,  you  cannot  for- 
get me  now." 

"  It  is  not  that  I  forget  you  now  —  to-day,  when 
you  are  with  me  again,  I  feel  your  presence,  but  I 
am  no  longer  a  heedless  child.  I  have  my  career 
before  me  now.  I  do  not  need  you  as  I  once 
needed  you."  She  stopped  a  moment.  "You 
would  not  be  satisfied  sharing  my  life  with 
me." 

"  Why  not  give  up  that  life,  Ann  ?  As  my  wife 
you  can  take  up  your  position  in  society.  You 
will  have  no  longer  any  need  to  work." 

"  Is  this  the  advice  you  give  me  ? "  she  cried. 
"  After  these  weeks  and  months  of  study,  of  hope, 
would  you  ask  me  to  cast  aside  my  success  for  the 
sake  of  your  ambitions  ?  No,  no,  it  would  be  ill- 


A    MODERN  ACTRESS.  143 

suited  to  my  roving  ways  to  sit  and  play  the  idle 
woman  of  society." 

"  You  would  have  your  occupations,"  I  said. 

"  The  occupations  of  answering  invitations,  I 
suppose." 

"  Our  women  of  society  do  more  useful  things 
than  those,"  I  answered.  "  You  would  have  your 
horses,  your  servants,  your  carriages  " 

"  And  what  would  those  luxuries  be  to  me  ? 
Foolish  pastimes,  empty  pleasures,  in  comparison 
with  my  work,  my  plays." 

I  bit  my  lips.  "  I  know  not  how  else  to  please 
you,  Ann.  As  my  wife,  you  would  be  expected  by 
the  world  to  renounce  your  acting  and  your  stage." 

"  You  still  love  your  social  world  better  than 
you  love  the  actress  !  "  she  exclaimed  bitterly. 
"  I  see  it  all  too  well." 

"  No,"  I  cried  ;  "  but  in  society  my  father  "  — 

"  Society  !  always  society  !  No,  no  ;  as  you  love 
your  fashionable  world,  so  the  actress  loves  her 
art."  She  flashed  a  look  of  hatred,  of  scorn,  at 
me  from  her  green  eyes.  They  seemed  to  reach 
my  very  soul.  I  turned  away,  I  shuddered.  What 
was  there  in  that  glance  which  made  me  raise  my 
hat  and  stride  away  ? 


144  A   MODERN  ACTRESS. 

On  and  on  I  walked.  Mile  upon  mile  slipped 
behind  me  in  the  sinking  shadows  of  that  after- 
noon light. 

Then  I  stood  still  beside  the  restless,  moaning 
sea.  I  listened  to  its  dreary  song. 

Even  now,  years  after,  the  sound  thereof  comes 
back  to  me,  making  me  tremble  in  its  weird  mem- 
ories, strange  realities. 


THE  HEROINE  OF   A   PICTURE. 


THE   HEROINE   OF   A   PICTURE. 


I  REMEMBER  one  year,  during  the  time  of  the 
Salon  in  Paris,  I  was  strangely  attracted  by  a 
painting  in  one  of  the  room's  on  the  right,  in 
the  Palais  de  1'Industrie.  It  was  a  large  can- 
vas, including  in  all  about  thirty  figures.  The 
coloring  was  vivid  and  of  much  variety.  The 
subject  represented  a  marriage  service  in  the 
higher  circles  of  life.  The  bride,  a  young  girl, 
stood  before  the  priest ;  at  her  right  was  the 
groom,  and  behind  her  were  the  parents.  The 
girl's  face  was  beautiful  in  its  pure  whiteness  and 
mobile  lines.  She  was  partly  turned  towards  her 
fianc/,  for  not  yet  had  they  been  pronounced 
man  and  wife.  The  words  were  being  said, 
"With  this  ring  I  thee  wed,"  when  the  bride's 
finger  had  trembled,  and,  in  an  unlucky  moment, 
the  ring  of  gold  had  fallen  to  the  ground.  The 
groom,  with  much  embarrassment,  was  stooping 
147 


148  THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE. 

to  restore  it  to  the  priest,  when  a  stir  in  the  con- 
gregation was  caused  by  the  exit  of  a  young  man 
from  the  church.  His  pale  face  was  pained  and 
angry.  His  dark  eyes  were  hard  and  staring  as 
they  met  those  of  the  intended  husband  of  the 
fair  young  bride. 

I  went  time  after  time  to  view  the  picture. 
There  was  a  fascination  in  the  unfinished  story, 
a  pathos  in  the  strange  union  of  the  young  woman 
and  the  old  man.  The  two  figures  stood  out  upon 
their  canvas,  making  them  live  and  breathe  to  me, 
even  in  their  silent  unreality. 

One  day,  as  I  stood  before  the  beloved  painting, 
a  stranger  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder.  I  looked 
around.  I  started  like  a  man  awaking  from  a 
dream. 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur,  but  I  have  often  seen 
you  watch  this  picture.  Can  I  make  so  bold 
as  to  tell  you  the  true  story  ?  "  asked  the 
stranger. 

"  The  story  of  the  young  and  beautiful  woman  ? " 
I  exclaimed.  "  So,  then,  there  is  a  story,  and  I 
am  not  wrong  in  believing  in  the  reality  of  such 
a  face  ? " 

"  No,"  he  replied ;  "  the  figure  is  drawn  from 


THE  HEROINE    OF  A    PICTURE.  149 

life,  and  the  painful  episode  here  painted  has  a 
living  example  for  its  model." 

I  was  enchanted,  and,  taking  a  good  position 
before  the  canvas,  I  bade  my  strange  friend  pro- 
ceed with  its  true  history. 

"  The  bride,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  young 
girl,  "  is  the  daughter  of  a  French  banker. 
Early  in  life  her  father  had  been  successful,  but 
later,  fortune  turned  against  him  ;  his  financial 
enterprises  came  to  no  good  end.  At  the  very 
time  of  his  worst  failure,  his  young  daughter, 
Mademoiselle  Henriette,  was  about  to  make  her 
debut  in  society.  Money  was  necessary,  both  for 
her  personal  wants  and  her  social  successes. 

"  The  poor  banker  was  almost  distracted  ;  he 
knew  not  where  to  turn.  At  the  right  hand  or 
the  left,  the  creditors  were  ever  casting  their 
shadows  before  him. 

"  One  day,  at  an  unlooked-for  moment,  an  old 
and  much  respected  friend  of  the  banker's,  Mon- 
sieur Armand  Galtier,  offered  to  help  him  out  of 
his  embarrassments.  The  man  was  rich,  and 
could  afford  to  make  great  promises.  At  length 
Monsieur  Michel  Bussey's  difficulties  were  satis- 
factorily arranged  ;  he  felt  he  could  again  hold  up 


ISO  THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE. 

his  head  in  business  as  well  as  social  circles.  But 
just  at  the  ending  of  their  interview,  so  satis- 
factory in  its  character,  Monsieur  Galtier  said 
shortly,— 

"  '  Michel,  old  friend,  I  now  have  a  favor  to  ask 
of  you.' 

"  '  Granted/  cried  the  grateful  banker. 

" '  Your  daughter  Mademoiselle  Henriette  in 
marriage.'  The  poor  father  was  astonished. 

"  '  My  daughter  Henriette  in  marriage  !  Impos- 
sible, my  good  fellow ;  she  is  but  a  child  and  you 
are  nearly  sixty.' 

"  'Such  difference  in  age  is  not  unusual  in  these 
days,'  pursued  the  rich  man,  '  and  I  will  take 
upon  my  own  shoulders  the  responsibility  of  her 
happiness.'  Monsieur  Bussey  was  annoyed ;  he 
well  knew  the  power  of  his  daughter's  beauty, 
for  her  he  had  great  ambitions.  He  never  meant 
to  strike  a  bargain  with  his  friend. 

" '  You  will  give  your  consent,  Michel,'  urged 
Monsieur  Galtier.  The  banker  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  said,  — 

"  '  My  consent  I  give  ;  but  for  Henriette's  feel- 
ings I  cannot  answer.' 

" '  Leave  those  to  me,'  said  the  rich  man,  con- 
tent with  his  share  in  the  arrangement. 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE.  151 

"So  it  happened  that  Henriette  Bussey  was 
given  in  marriage  to  Armand  Galtier.  She  did  not 
love  him.  No.  Her  affections  had  already  been 
promised  to  the  dark-haired  boy,  in  the  background 
of  the  picture.  But  Monsieur  Gaston  Bernard,  for 
he  it  was,  had  never  spoken  to  her  father  upon 
the  subject.  He  was  poor,  and  afraid  of  what  the 
banker  would  say  to  his  proposed  alliance  with  his 
beautiful  daughter. 

"The  curious  incident  at  the  church  was  the 
cause  of  much  anxiety  to  Monsieur  Bussey ;  but 
Monsieur  Galtier  never  alluded  to  it  once,  and 
seemed  entirely  satisfied  with  their  marriage 
service. 

"  The  beautiful  Henriette  soon  became  the  pet 
of  society.  Night  after  night  she  would  sit  at 
the  opera,  and  from  her  box  her  diamonds  would 
flicker  and  flash  their  costly  rays  around  her. 
Her  husband  was  her  constant  attendant.  De- 
voted, kind,  the  people  said. 

"  Their  appearance  was  looked  for  at  every  soiree, 
every  dinner  and  musicale.  Paris  rang  with  their 
praise.  Old  Monsieur  Bussey  was  delighted. 
Henriette  loved  Armand. 

"  But  it  chanced  one  day  that  in  going  to  their 


152  THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE. 

apartments  he  found  Gaston  Bernard  seated 
there.  It  happened  so  quite  often.  The  young 
man's  eyes  were  defiant  and  daring  as  they  met 
the  old  man's  gaze.  Monsieur  Bussey  was 
annoyed ;  he  determined  to  speak  to  Henriette 
about  it.  Later  her  husband  came  in,  and  the 
banker  thought  it  unbecoming  on  his  part  to 
interfere.  '  Armand  will  arrange  his  own  mat- 
ters,' he  thought,  'and  not  thank  me  for  ad- 
vice.' 

"  So  the  time  wore  on.  The  Galtiers  still  went 
everywhere.  Henriette  walked  in  her  costly 
gowns,  drove  in  her  luxurious  carriages  in  the 
avenues,  and  sometimes  with  her  husband  in  the 
Bois.  He  was  devoted  in  his  attentions,  in  his 
manner  kind.  If  at  times  he  watched  his  wife's 
movements  or  gestures,  it  was  to  think  how  fair 
she  was  —  more  fair  and  beautiful  every  day, 
every  hour. 

"  But  by  and  by  Monsieur  Bussey  began  to  have 
his  fears,  and  daily  they  increased. 

"  Henriette's  indifference  worried  him.  She 
would  seem  so  listless,  absent-minded,  when  in 
the  quiet  of  her  life. 

"  '  Excitement  all  the  time  ! '  he  would  exclaim  ; 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE.  153 

'  why,  too  much  pleasure  is  a  dreadful  thing ! ' 
Then  Henriette  would  laugh  and  clasp  her  jewelled 
hands,  and  say,  — 

"  '  Oh,  no,  papa,  indeed  you  are  mistaken.  I  am 
so  happy,  so  content  when  in  the  glitter  of  the 
world.  I  even  love  its  changing  moods,  its 
fickleness ! ' 

"'Hush,  hush,  my  child.  I  hate  to  hear  you 
say  such  things.'  Then  her  husband  would  put 
his  hand  upon  his  old  friend's  arm,  and  laughing 
answer,  '  Henriette  is  but  a  child.  She  does  not 
understand  the  weight  of  all  her  words.  Yet,  let 
her  be  young  and  happy  while  she  can.  I  love  to 
see  her  eyes  light  up  at  the  sound  of  music,  or 
her  face  brighten  at  the  cadence  of  the  dance.' 

"  Would  it  then  be  any  wonder  if  the  young  wife 
were  spoiled  ?  Carriages,  horses,  servants,  con- 
stantly at  her  command.  For  who  was  there  to 
chide  or  check  her  fanciful  career  ?  The  husband 
was  too  blind,  or  maybe  too  indulgent,  to  speak 
the  needed  words  to  his  young  and  beautiful  wife. 

"  She  waltzed,  she  danced,  at  every  soiree  until 
one  night  on  her  return  she  could  not  content 
herself  nor  get  one  hour  of  sleep.  Her  husband, 
hearing  of  this,  was  alarmed,  and  going  to 


154  THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE. 

Monsieur  Bussey  spoke  to  him  of  it.  The  old 
man  shook  his  head. 

"  '  Henriette  is  sadly  changed,'  he  said. 

" '  Perhaps  all  this  excitement  is  too  much  for 
her  to  stand,'  replied  her  husband.  He  spoke 
with  much  concern. 

"  '  I  wish  you  and  Henriette  would  go  away.' 

"  '  Why  ? '  asked  the  rich  man. 

"  '  Paris  is  no  place  for  your  wife.  She  is  far  too 
heedless,  much  too  young.' 

"  '  A  quiet  city  would  not  satisfy  her  taste.' 

"  '  That  is  very  true.  But  I  wish  you  could  do 
something  to  get  her  out  of  this.'  Monsieur 
Galtier  only  raised  his  hands  and  laughed. 

"'  It  would  be  impossible,  I  suppose,'  continued 
the  old  man. 

" '  Yes,  quite  impossible.  Henriette  loves  Paris. 
And  I  assure  you,  I  feel  no  concern  about  her 
gayeties.  Young  people  are  different  from  older 
ones.' 

" '  Yes,  yes.  But  do  you  not  see  the  folly,  the 
ruin,  of  all  this  admiration,  this  praise  ? ' 

" '  No.  For  your  daughter  is  a  woman  who 
merits  admiration  and  praise.'  The  old  man 
turned  away  dissatisfied. 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE.  155 

" '  Michel/  said  Armand  kindly,  '  there  is  some- 
thing on  your  mind.  What  is  it  ?  Can't  you  tell 
me  now  ? ' 

"'No,  no/  cried  the  banker;  'I  am  quite 
satisfied,  you  are  her  husband.  You  know  best.' 

" '  And  you  her  father,  sir/  Armand  Galtier 
cried.  '  Pray  let  me  know  your  thought.'  The 
request  was  earnest,  an  answer  had  to  come.  The 
father  drew  his  friend  aside,  although  this  precau- 
tion was  unnecessary  as  there  was  no  one  by  to 
hear,  and  whispered,  — 

"  '  I  hate  to  tell  you  this/  The  rich  man  turned 
indignant. 

"  '  What  you  have  to  tell  me,  tell  me  now.  Speak 
out ;  I  cannot  bear  suspense/  he  cried. 

"  '  Hush,  only  this  my  friend  :  I  wish  you  would 
not  have  Gaston  Bernard  so  often  at  your  house/ 
The  father  meant  it  well,  he  thought  to  save  his 
child.  The  husband  clinched  his  fists  and 
frowned. 

"  '  You  are  right,  perhaps/  he  said.  '  But  then 
true  love  is  blind/  He  gave  a  short  laugh,  and 
very  soon  he  went  away.  When  he  was  gone 
Monsieur  Bussey  felt  relieved.  It  was  his  duty 
to  mention  this.  Now  the  husband  would  put  an 


156  THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE. 

end  to  Gaston's  visits,  and  Henriette  —  well  — 
Henriette  would  soon  forgive,  forget. 

"  But  Armand  Galtier  was  never  kinder, 
never  more  gentle  to  his  wife  than  on  that 
day  and  those  following  his  interview  with  the 
banker. 

"A  week  passed,  ten  days.  There  was  no  sign 
of  Gaston  Bernard  at  Madame  Galtier's  apartments. 
The  husband  congratulated  himself  on  his  wise 
prudence,  his  silence  to  his  wife. 

"The  opera  was  at  its  height.  Henriette  was 
going  to  her  box.  She  dressed  herself  in  a  rich 
gown  of  satin,  —  her  diamonds  round  her  throat 
and  in  her  hair. 

"The  clock  upon  the  mantel  chimed  out  the 
hour  in  its  sweet,  silvery  tones.  '  Eight  o'clock  ! ' 
mused  Madame  Galtier.  '  My  husband  will  be  late.' 
She  moved  to  the  window.  She  pushed  back  the 
curtain  and  looked  out.  The  streets  were  alive 
with  people  and  with  lights.  The  carriages  were 
rolling  by  in  great  numbers  —  Henriette  was 
anxious  to  be  off.  She  heard  her  husband  on  the 
stair.  She  replaced  the  curtain.  She  waited. 
Monsieur  Galtier  entered.  His  face  was  red 
from  walking,  and  he  was  out  of  breath.  He 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE.  157 

advanced  toward  his  wife,  and  stooping,  kissed  her 
lips.  '  Already  going  out  ? '  he  asked. 

"  '  Yes,  Armand,  and  do  hurry.  I  am  so  afraid 
you  will  be  late.' 

"  '  Be  late  for  what  ? ' 

"  '  The  opera.' 

"  '  I  thought  you  went  last  night ! '  Madame 
Galtier  laughed. 

" '  I  was  there  last  night,  but  now  I  want  to  go 
again  ! '  The  rich  man  glanced  about  his  costly 
home.  To  him  there  were  great  attractions  in  its 
taste  and  quietness.  Then  turning  to  his  hand- 
some wife,  he  said,  — 

"  '  This  evening,  Henriette,  I  would  prefer  to 
stay  at  home.'  The  young  wife  flushed  crimson. 

"  'This  lovely  night  remain  in  doors  ?  Oh,  no  ! 
Surely  you  are  joking,  Armand ! '  He  moved 
toward  his  wife,  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"  '  No,  I  am  in  earnest  now.'  The  blue  eyes 
opened  wide,  the  red  lips  said,  — 

"  '  You  have  never  wanted  me  to  remain  away 
from  my  amusements  before.' 

" '  All  the  more  reason  in  the  asking  now,  my 
little  girl,'  he  said.  His  gray  eyes  were  very 
kind. 


158  THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE. 

''• '  Not  when  I  am  quite  dressed  and  ready, 
Armand ! ' 

" '  You  have  not  dressed  yourself  so  tastefully  in 
vain.  None  could  admire  your  costume  more  than 
I,  Henriette ;  spend  this  one  evening  alone  with 
me,  your  husband.'  He  was  looking  at  her  as  he 
spoke. 

" '  I  want  so  much  to  go,'  she  pleaded. 

"  '  And  I  want  you  so  much  to  remain  ! '  Mad- 
ame Galtier  was  taken  by  surprise.  She  had  never 
longed  more  for  the  delicious  music  of  the  opera 
than  at  the  instant  when  her  husband's  voice  was 
begging  her  to  stay  at  home.  She  wavered  a 
moment —  just  a  moment,  and  then  said,  — 

" '  I  must  go,  Armand,  but  you  can  stay  at 
home!'  If  Monsieur  Galtier  was  displeased,  he  did 
not  show  it.  He  moved  away  and  answered,  — 

"  '  We  will  both  go,  Henriette.  But  as  I  am  not 
dressed  and  ready,  you  can  send  the  carriage  back 
for  me ;  I  will  follow  later.'  Then  going  to  his 
own  room,  he  shut  and  locked  the  door.  Henri- 
ette put  on  her  wraps  and  quickly  left  the  house. 
She  was  not  troubled  by  her  husband's  mood. 
He  had  said  he  would  come  later,  and  he  always 
kept  his  word. 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE.  159 

"  After  a  while  when  Monsieur  Galtier  entered 
his  box,  he  found  his  wife  seated  in  front  and  by 
her  side  was  Gaston  Bernard.  He  only  glanced 
at  them  once.  So  on  they  talked  and  laughed  and 
whispered. 

"  Soon  Monsieur  Galtier  left  the  box,  and  going 
outside,  smoked  a  cigarette.  He  finished  two 
before  returning  to  his  wife  ;  as  he  came  in,  the 
last  words  of  the  opera  were  being  sung.  Mon- 
sieur Galtier  found  his  wife's  cloak  and  put  it 
around  her.  He  offered  her  his  arm,  and  as  he 
turned,  saw  Gaston  Bernard  at  his  side.  He 
raised  his  hat,  and  said  with  dignity,  — 

"  '  Monsieur  Bernard,  I  wish  you  good-night.' 

"  Henriette  walked  on  with  her  husband ;  as 
they  passed  through  the  crowd,  she  felt  his  arm 
pressing  close  to  hers.  He  did  not  speak,  but 
hurried  to  his  carriage.  He  helped  Madame  Gal- 
tier in,  then  followed  her.  As  they  drove  home, 
he  asked  her  how  she  liked  the  music  and  the 
plot.  But  Henriette  only  answered  yes  or  no 
at  random.  She  was  shy,  afraid ;  she  knew  not 
why.  She  kept  her  face  turned  from  her  hus- 
band. At  length  they  reached  their  own  door. 
Monsieur  Galtier  followed  her  into  the  house  and 


160  THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE. 

up  the  stairs.  Entering  the  parlor  Henriette 
stopped. 

"  '  I  think  I  will  go  straight  to  my  room,'  she 
said,  '  I  am  tired.'  Armand  pushed  to  the  door. 

"  '  No,  not  yet,'  he  said.  '  I  want  you  for  one 
moment.' 

"  '  But,  Armand,  I  want  to  go  to  bed  now.' 

"'One  moment,  please,'  he  said. 

"  '  Can't  you  see  how  tired  and  pale  I  am  ? ' 
murmured  the  young  wife.  '  I  would  much 
rather  go.' 

" '  No,'  repeated  the  rich  man.  She  moved 
toward  the  door,  but  Monsieur  Galtier  stretched 
out  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  grasped  the  key 
and  turned  it. 

"  '  You  cannot  go,  at  least  not  yet,  until  I  have 
finished  what  I  have  to  say.' 

"  '  How  can  you  be  so  obstinate,  so  rude  ? '  said 
his  wife. 

"  '  Henriette,  I  beg  you  listen  to  me  ; '  and  the 
rich  man's  voice  was  determined. 

"  '  But  you  are  unkind,  unreasonable,  Armand.' 

"  '  I  have  never  been  unkind,  unreasonable,  to 
you  in  my  life.  If  you  think  one  moment  you 
will  realize  the  folly  of  what  you  say.' 


THE  HEROINE    OF  A    PICTURE.  161 

" '  Do  you  intend  to  keep  me  long  ? '  cried 
Madame  Galtier. 

" '  No.' 

" '  It  is  late,  and  cold  for  me  to  wait  in  this 
room  now.  Please,  Armand,  please  let  me  go.' 

"  'The  room  is  not  cold,  Henriette,'  he  said. 

"  '  I  feel  it  so,'  she  urged.  '  You  do  not  believe 
me,  Armand.  Indeed,  I  want  to  go.' 

"  '  I  do  believe  you,'  he  answered.  '  You  are, 
no  doubt,  most  anxious  to  leave  me  just  now!' 
He  laughed. 

"  '  But  you  are  so  queer,  so  difficile  to-night. 
You  do  not  understand  me ;  you  are  angry.  I 
can  see  it ;  I  know  not  what  has  provoked  you 
so.' 

" '  It  is  you,  Henriette,  who  until  to-night  have 
never  known  me.' 

" '  I  fail  to  know  you  now,  it  is  quite  true. 
You  are  like  a  stranger  with  me.' 

"  '  In  a  moment  I  shall  make  myself  more  clear. 
I  do  not  like  your  acquaintance,  your  friendship, 
with  that  young  Gaston  Bernard.' 

"  '  You  have  no  reason  for  objecting  to  him,' 
said  Henriette,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  head  proudly 
back.  '  He  is  a  good  and  honored  friend.' 


1 62  THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE. 

"  '  That  may  be  so,  but  you  are  too  young  to 
judge  of  him,  Henriette,  and  of  his  ways.  I  do 
not  wish  to  see  him  in  your  box  again.' 

"  '  I  have  asked  him  to  come.' 

"  '  Then  you  cannot  go  yourself.' 

"  '  Why  ? ' 

"  '  Do  not  ask  me  questions  to  which  I  would 
not  wish  to  give  an  answer.' 

"  '  I  have  a  right  to  know.' 

"  '  It  is  simply  that  I  do  not  like  to  see  you,  my 
wife,  talking,  laughing,  whispering  in  my  opera 
box  with  him  ! ' 

"  '  There  is  no  harm  in  that ! ' 

" '  You  made  yourself  conspicuous  this  evening, 
and  that  is  something  which  my  wife  should 
never  do.' 

"  '  What  nonsense ! ' 

"  '  I  mean  just  what  I  have  said.' 

"  '  I  see  that  you  are  jealous.' 

" '  Only  of  your  rights.  I  tell  you  now,  Hen- 
riette, I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  speaking  to  Gaston 
Bernard  again.'  Madame  Galtier  showed  her  tem- 
per in  her  face. 

"  '  You  shall  not  command  me,'  she  cried. 

"  '  I  must,'  he  answered,  '  since  you  choose  to 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE.  163 

disregard  my  wish.'  There  was  silence.  Painful 
moments  to  them  both.  Then  Henriette  pulled 
her  costly  cloak  around  her  and  picked  up  her 
gloves  and  fan. 

"  '  I  would  like  to  pass.  Please  open  the  door/ 
she  said. 

'"Certainly/  replied  her  husband,  unlocking  the 
door  and  throwing  open  wide  the  portiere.  She 
walked  by  him  without  another  word  or  glance. 
But  when  she  had  gone  Armand  Galtier  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  How  long  he  sat  alone  he 
did  not  know,  but  when  he  raised  his  eyes  again, 
his  wife  was  standing  at  the  door.  He  started  at 
her  wonderous  fairness,  her  great  beauty. 

"  '  Armand/  she  said,  '  you  have  made  a  sug- 
gestion to  me,  your  wife,  to-night,  which  I  can  not 
and  do  not  wish  to  understand.  You  have  given 
me  great  fears.  I  am  afraid.  I  am  afraid  of  you 
and  of  your  words.  No,  do  not  come  near  me/ 
for  she  saw  him  step  toward  her.  '  I  am  very 
angry.'  Armand  Galtier  could  see  that  she  was 
trembling.  '  What  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  was 
this.  I  cannot  obey  your  wishes.  It  would  be 
a  poor  compliment  to  Henriette  Bussey  should 
she  refuse  to  meet  her  old  friends.  Monsieur 


1 64  THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE. 

Gaston  Bernard  would  scarcely  realize  that  it  was 
your  command.  I  am  too  proud  to  take  this 
step.' 

"  '  Henriette,  you  reason  well.  But  can  you  not 
see  that,  as  your  husband,  I  have  my  ideas  and 
even  my  commands  ?  This  man,  with  whom  you 
are  intimate,  is  no  good  friend  for  you.  When 
you  are  older,  dear,  you  will  know  that  in  my  judg- 
ments I  am  right/  Madame  Galtier  smoothed 
back  her  brown  hair,  and  clasping  her  hands,  said 
earnestly,  — 

"  '  In  telling  me  this  of  my  friend,  you  only  make 
our  friendship  stronger.  It  is  so  cruel  to  speak 
against  another  man.' 

"  '  And  is  it  necessary  for  you  to  defend  another 
man  against  your  husband  ? '  Madame  Galtier 
gave  no  answer  to  the  question. 

"  '  Now,  Henriette,  go  to  your  room  and  think 
well  over  what  we  both  have  said.' 

"  '  You  must  allow  me  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Gas- 
ton.' 

"  '  No  ;  and  you  must  promise  that  my  word  shall 
be  obeyed.'  She  shook  her  head. 

" '  I  cannot.' 

"  '  This  is  absurd  !  '  exclaimed  the  man.     '  You 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE.  165 

are  foolish,  —  deaf  to  all  reason  as  well  as  to 
commands.'  But  the  wife  did  not  speak.  The 
light  of  the  candles  was  reflected  in  her  pale  face. 
Armand  Galtier  went  to  her  side.  '  Henriette,' 
he  said,  '  let  us  not  speak  any  more  to-night  of 
this  —  this  stupid  subject.'  She  drew  back.  Her 
eyes  were  frightened  in  their  timid  gaze.  Armand 
took  her  hand. 

"  '  No,  no,'  she  cried  ;  '  I  am  afraid  —  afraid  of 
you.' 

"  '  Afraid  of  me  ? ' 

" '  Yes,  yes,'  she  murmured.  He  let  go  her 
hand  and  moved  away. 

" '  Armand,'  she  said,  a  sob  in  her  throat  and  in 
her  voice,  '  I  wish  you  would  leave  me  —  leave 
me  to  myself  a  little  while.'  He  turned  to  the 
open  door. 

"  '  Of  course,'  he  said. 

"  '  Armand,  you  do  not  understand.  I  mean  for 
you  to  travel  somewhere  —  for  a  trip,  a  journey  — 
and  leave  me  here  alone.' 

"  '  But  why  should  I  do  that  ? ' 

"  '  Because  I  wish  it.' 

"  '  It  would  be  against  my  wish.' 

"  '  My  father  will  be  with  me.' 


1 66  THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE. 

11  '  True,  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  But  this 
idea  seems  so  peculiar,  Henriette.  I  have  had  no 
time  to  think  of  anything  in  connection  with  it.' 
In  glancing  at  Monsieur  Galtier  just  then  his  face 
looked  worn  and  older. 

"  '  If  I  would  be  better  in  the  quiet  of  my  own 
home,  quite  alone,  you  would  not  then  hesitate  to 
go?' 

"  '  I  will  grant  you  this  quiet  if  you  desire  it, 
Henriette.' 

"  The  light  came  back  into  her  eyes.  '  How 
good  you  are  ! '  she  cried. 

"  The  strong  man  bowed  his  head.  Tears  came 
in  his  eyes.  He  brushed  them  hastily  aside. 

"  '  Armand,  don't  you  think  that  I  am  right  ? ' 

"  '  No,'  he  answered. 

"  '  Then,  you  do  not  wish  me  to  remain  alone  in 
Paris  ? ' 

"  '  No.' 

"  '  You  do  not  think  I  can  be  happy  by  myself  ? ' 

"'No.' 

" '  You  can  come  back  before  the  season  ends.' 

"  '  I  would  have  no  heart  for  gayeties.' 

"  '  Would  you  rather  have  me  remain  away  from 
soirtes  when  you  are  gone  ? ' 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE.  167 

"'No.' 

"  '  Then  I  do  not  know  of  any  way  to  please 
you.' 

"  '  No.' 

"  '  But  you  will  like  to  travel,  won't  you  ? ' 

"  '  I  shall  travel  all  the  same.  It  is  you  who 
have  arranged  this  trip,  not  I.  Remember  in  the 
future,  Henriette,  you  sent  me  frpm  you.  I  did 
not  ask  to  go.' 

" '  But  you  think  it  will  be  for  the  best  ? ' 

"  '  How  can  I  ? ' 

"  '  But  we  will  be  happier  separated  for  a  time.' 

"  '  Have  we,  then,  been  unhappy  ?  I  never  knew 
it,  dear.' 

"  '  This  evening  we  have  been  unhappy  —  very 
unhappy.' 

"  '  I  did  not  think  so.  I  was  blind  ;  I  suppose 
love  makes  people  blind.  I  thought  your  day  and 
evening  full  of  pleasures  and  gayeties.' 

'"I  have  not  enjoyed  my  coming  home  to- 
night.' 

" '  And  since  you  think  it  will  be  pleasanter  to 
return  alone '  —  he  spoke  with  difficulty  — '  then 
of  course  I  must  arrange  that  it  shall  be  as  you 
desire.  To-morrow  is  sufficient  time.  We  can 


1 68  THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE. 

arrange  it  all.  So  now  I  will  ask  you  to  excuse 
me,  Henriette,  and  bid  you  good-night,  good- 
night.' He  quickly  crossed  the  room  and  left  his 
wife. 


"  A  few  weeks  later,  when  the  people  heard  of 
the  separation,  for  such  it  seemed,  they  shook  their 
heads  in  doubt.  Some  said  it  was  as  well,  she 
was  too  beautiful  to  be  happy  with  such  a  plain, 
uninteresting  man.  But  there  was  one  disap- 
pointed person,  one  broken-hearted  old  man.  He 
went  to  his  daughter.  In  vain  he  pleaded  with 
her  for  her  husband's  cause. 

"  But  Henriette  Galtier  seemed  well  to  know, 
what  she  had  done.  Her  husband  had  grown 
jealous  of  her  friends. 

"  A  year  passed  ;  another  came.  The  young  wife 
lived  on  in  luxury,  in  ease.  She  knew  not  what  it 
meant  to  want  for  anything. 

"  She  went  to  every  soiree  just  the  same.  Now 
she  was  more  courted  by  a  different  set.  Her 
husband  was  too  old,  these  younger  people  said. 

"  Paris  promised  a  full  season.  Balls  and  soirees 
every  night. 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE.  169 

"  Thursday  came,  on  which  night  would  be  a 
much-talked-of  party.  Everybody  longed  to  be 
invited  ;  those  who  were  all  went. 


"  Henriette  had  never  looked  more  beautiful, 
more  fair.  She  was  remarked  by  all ;  men  and 
women  turned  to  gaze  at  her  rich  costume,  her 
dazzling  jewels  on  her  hands  and  neck  and  in  her 
hair.  Some  were  envious  of  the  young  woman's 
admirers,  of  her  clever  ways,  which  added  greatly 
to  her  charms,  to  her  praise. 

"  When  she  entered  the  ballroom  with  Monsieur 
Gaston  Bernard,  people  shook  their  heads  and 
whispered,  '  She  will  marry  him,  no  doubt.'  It 
was  on  that  very  night  he  sought  his  chance,  he 
asked  her  hand.  But  when  the  moment  came, 
Henriette  was  frightened  at  his  ardent  manner, 
loving  words.  She  looked  around,  but  no  one 
came  to  interrupt  the  man  who  argued  for  his 
very  life  and  happiness.  His  eyes  grew  darker, 
larger,  in  his  tenderness. 

" '  I  remember  too  well,'  he  cried,  '"the  day  you 
married  Monsieur  Galtier,  and  when  his  ring  fell 


I/O         THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE. 

to  the  ground  I  thought  it  was  an  omen  of  sorrow 
in  the  unknown  future  of  your  lives.'  Madame 
Galtier  drew  back  ;  her  face  was  ashen  pale. 

"  '  I  am  not  superstitious,'  she  said. 

"  'But  you  have  had  troubles,  I  well  know.' 

"  '  Just  now,  I  am  quite  happy,  —  forgetful  of 
the  past.'  The  young  man  seized  her  hand. 

"  '  I  love  you,  Henriette,'  he  cried.  She  shook 
her  head,  and  tears  came  in  her  big  blue  eyes. 

"  '  I  may  tell  you  now,'  he  urged.  '  There  is  no 
one  to  fear.  Monsieur  Galtier  is  not  with  us  to- 
night.' 

"  'You  must  not  speak  his  name.  No,  no,'  she 
cried. 

"  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  it  was  unwise,'  he  an- 
swered. 

"  '  Monsieur  Galtier  is  not  here,  I  know  it  well  — 
would  to  Heaven  he  were,  and  I  might  see  him 
now ! '  She  moved  her  head ;  her  diamonds 
flashed,  but  her  eyes  were  brightest  in  her  eager- 
ness. 

"  '  I  do  not  understand  these  sentiments.' 

"  '  Who  can  understand  my  feelings  now  ? '  she 
cried.  '  They  will  all  laugh  and  jeer  and  say  it  is 
not  true.  These  people  will  say  that  I  am  mad ! ' 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE.          I /I 

"  '  You  must  not  excite  your  mind  so,  Henriette. 
Why  will  people  say  that  you  are  mad  ? ' 

"  '  When  they  learn  the  truth.' 

" '  What  is  the  truth  ? ' 

"  '  That  I  love  him  —  my  husband  —  Armand 
Galtier! '  The  young  man  rose,  astonished. 

"  '  Yes,  I  love  him  deeply,  truly,'  said  the  wife, 
her  beautiful  head  thrown  back,  his  jewels  on  her 
wrists  and  hands. 

"'You  love  your  husband!  Then  pardon  me, 
Madame,'  said  Gaston  Bernard ;  his  voice  was 
choked  with  bitterness.  '  I  made  my  bold  request 
in  faith  and  ignorance.'  He  looked  at  the  beauti- 
ful woman  whom  he  had  loved  so  truly  and  so 
long.  The  music  started  up,  the  waltzing  had 
begun.  Madame  Galtier  rose  ;  she  walked  to  the 
door  and  looked  out  at  the  frantic  dancers  in  the 
hall  beyond. 

"  '  Come,'  she  said  to  Gaston,  '  I,  too,  would  like 
a  turn.'  Quickly  he  drew  her  arm  through  his, 
then  she  turned  back,  her  proud  lips  curled  in  their 
disdain. 

"  '  No,  no,'  she  cried,  '  it  cannot  be.  I  could  not, 
would  not  dance  with  you  ! '  He  let  go  her  arm, 
and  angry,  said,  — 


1/2          THE  HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE. 

"  '  Have  no  fear.  To-night  I  would  have  danced 
with  you,  just  once,  to  show  our  friends  that  we 
defy  their  criticisms,  their  jests.  But  now  I  will 
not  be  seen  with  you.  You  are  too  insincere,  too 
selfish  —  I  do  not  want  you,  not  even  for  a  friend. 
Then  he  quickly  walked  away  and  left  her  without 
another  word. 

"  Astonished,  relieved,  content,  Henriette  went 
out  and  up  the  stairs.  In  a  moment  she  returned, 
her  wraps  around  her,  a  covering  on  her  head.  She 
left  the  ball.  Her  carriage  took  her  swiftly  from 
the  crowded  house.  As  it  glided  through  the 
streets  her  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  Confused  sounds 
of  music,  low  voices,  jingled  in  her  ears.  She 
leaned  against  the  cushions  of  her  carriage,  pro- 
tected from  the  cold.  But  Madame  Galtier  was 
longing  to  get  home.  Her  pale  face  wore  a  fever- 
ish blush,  her  lips  were  dry  and  burning. 

"  '  Home,  home,'  she  murmured  ;  'what  a  lonely 
resting-place  it  has  become  to  me  ! ' 

"  In  every  passing  thought  she  saw  but  one 
object,  recognized  but  one  hope,  for  Henriette 
Galtier  at  last  had  ceased  to  love  the  glitter  and 
the  glory  of  the  fashionable  world. 

"  Reaching  the  Rue  Monceau  she  hurried  up  the 


THE  HEROINE    OF  A   PICTURE.          173 

wide  steps  to  her  own  apartments.  The  lamps 
were  burning  brightly  as  she  entered ;  the  fire  in 
the  hearth  leaped  into  a  red  and  flickering  flame,  as 
the  door  opened  and  the  wind  swept  in.  These 
were  the  only  signs  of  life,  of  welcome,  which 
Henriette  now  knew  ;  but  in  her  fast-beating  heart 
there  was  an  ardent  longing,  a  precious  image. 

"  '  He  must  come  soon,'  she  argued ;  '  Henri- 
ette has  no  patience  left.'  She  passed  the  mir- 
ror :  she  saw  her  tall  form,  her  mobile  face, 
reflected  in  it.  '  He  told  me  I  was  fair  once ; 
I  wonder  have  I  changed  since  then  ? '  Lighting 
a  candle  she  held  it  high  above  her  head. 

"  No,  Henriette  looks  the  same.  There  are  a 
few  hidden  lines  about  the  forehead,  a  slight 
contraction  in  the  brows  ;  she  passes  her  finger 
over  them  as  though  to  smooth  the  creases  out, 
but  nothing  more  to  mark  the  changes  of  the  past 
two  years.  '  He  will  find  me  the  same  woman  of 
long  ago.'  She  smiles  to  herself  as  she  unclasps 
the  dazzling  necklace,  her  wedding -gift  ;  the 
stones  twinkle  and  sparkle  in  her  grasp.  Then 
going  to  her  desk  she  sat  down  and  wrote  quickly. 
She  had  no  difficulty  in  composing  the  sentences. 
'  I  want  you,  Armand,'  she  wrote ;  '  I  love  you, 


1/4         THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE. 

and  so  I  know  that  you  will  come.'  It  was  a 
beautiful  story,  simply  told.  She  pressed  the 
seal  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it.  Putting  the  letter 
upon  the  table,  she  turned  away. 

"  '  Yes,'  she  said,  '  he  will  come ;  I  know  that 
he  will  come.' 

"  The  night  passed  restlessly  .for  Henriette.  She 
dreamed  and  thought,  and  thought  and  dreamed, 
of  Armand  Galtier.  She  arose  the  next  morning 
tired,  but  happy  in  her  decision,  —  in  her  new- 
found love. 

"  She  was  waiting  in  her  salon,  breakfast  over, 
for  her  carriage  to  arrive.  She  would  carry  the 
letter  herself  to  the  post ;  no  other  hands  should 
touch  that  sacred  message. 

"  Just  then  her  father  was  announced.  His  visit 
was  unexpected  to  his  daughter  ;  she  rose  to 
greet  him. 

" '  Dear  papa,'  she  said,  folding  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  gently  kissing  his  soft,  white  hair, 
'  I  am  so  glad  you  should  have  come  ! ' 

"  '  Not  already  in  from  walking,  my  child  ? '  he 
asked,  stroking  her  small  hands. 

" '  No,  papa,'  she  said  ;  '  but  I  am  going  out 
now,  in  a  moment,  when  my  carriage  comes.' 


THE  HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE.          1/5 

She  led  him  to  the  sofa  and  put  her  cheek  against 
his  arm. 

"  '  Where  to,  my  pet  ? '  he  asked. 

"  'A  secret,  dear  papa.' 

'"  But  I  can  share  it,  child,'  the  old  man  said. 

"'No,  no,'  began  Henriette. 

" '  Your  old  father  does  not  ask  from  any  curi- 
osity ;  have  no  fear,  my  pet.' 

" '  Papa,'  exclaimed  the  beautiful  woman,  then 
stopped. 

" '  Yes.' 

"  '  Papa,  I  have  awakened  to  a  great  reality.' 
The  old  man  did  not  speak,  but  pressed  her  hand. 

"  '  My  heart  has  told  me  whom  I  really  love.' 

" '  Henriette,  think  no  more  of  love.  Can  you 
not  be  happy  as  you  are  ?  Have  done  with 
these  deceptions,  these  phantoms  now,'  he 
said. 

"'But  this  is  no  phantom,  father,'  urged  the 
girl. 

" '  I  know  too  well,'  the  father  said. 

"  '  You  remember  the  separation  —  my  sepa- 
ration with  Armand  ?  The  papers  are  not 
already  signed ;  I  was  to  put  my  name  upon 
them  some  day,  I  cared  not  when :  this  week 


THE   HEROINE   OF  A   PICTURE. 

I  think  the  lawyers  said.'  There  was  a  pause  : 
the  flushed  cheeks  pressed  closer  to  the  strong 
arm.  '  Papa,  I  have  decided  not  to  write  my 
name.'  The  father  bent  his  head  and  kissed  his 
child. 

"  '  I  cannot  sign  away  my  rights  —  I  love  —  I 
love  my  husband,  Armand  Galtier.'  She  raised 
her  head  and  pointed  with  her  hand  to  the  letter. 
'  I  wrote  it ;  I  asked  my  husband  to  come  back,' 
she  said. 

"  '  Get  it,  child,'  replied  the  old  man.  Henriette 
rose  and  put  the  letter  in  his  hand.  The  old 
man  did  not  speak. 

" '  You  believe  me  ?  you  believe  I  love  him, 
dear  ? '  she  said. 

" '  I  believe  you,  yes,  yes,'  he  cried  :  then 
stopped  and  drew  her  nearer  to  him.  '  I  am 
going,  Henriette,'  he  said.  Without  another 
word,  he  hurried  from  the  room.  Tears  were 
in  the  kind  eyes,  sorrow  in  the  parent's  heart,  as 
he  hurried  down  the  steps  and  from  his  daughter's 
house. 

" '  She  loves  him,'  he  murmured,  '  loves  her 
husband,  Armand  Galtier.'  He  could  not  tell 
her  then  —  to-morrow  it  would  do.  '  Let  her 


THE   HEROINE   OF  A    PICTURE.          177 

rejoice   unheeded    in    the   first    moments   of   her 
new-found  joy.' 

"It  was  quite  true  though  ;  her  father  had  come 
to  tell  her  of  it.  Armand  Galtier  dropped  dead 
that  morning  in  the  Rue  Marboeuf.  He  died 
without  a  word,  the  people  said." 


The  voice  of  the  stranger  ceased. 

I  took  out  my  handkerchief.  I  wept.  "  She 
was  indeed  a  noble  woman,  greatly  to  be  blamed, 
greatly  to  be  pitied,"  I  said;  "it  seems  a  sad 
story." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  stranger;  "but  not  without 
pathos.  She  was,  after  all,  but  a  fanciful  woman 
who  knew  not  her  heart,  her  weakness,  her 
strength." 

We  looked  again  at  the  picture ;  but  the  light 
had  faded  from  the  room  and  left  those  silent 
figures  in  partial  darkness. 

"I  will  come  again  to-morrow,"  I  said,  "and 
look  at  the  faces  more  thoroughly." 

So  I  did. 

And  the  day  after. 


FRIENDSHIP? 

A   SKETCH. 


FRIENDSHIP? 

A   SKETCH. 


EARLY  in  the  winter  of  1885  my  father  died. 

I  could  not  but  miss  so  devoted  a  parent,  and  it 
was  with  a  morbid  dread  of  the  future  that  I 
looked  forward  to  the  continuance  of  my  life 
without  his  kind  guidance  and  unceasing  care. 
We  had  been  much  together  during  those  later 
years,  and  I  had  learned  to  lean  greatly  upon  his 
wise  opinions,  while  he,  in  his  turn,  had  depended 
solely  upon  my  companionship. 

I  was  not  the  only  son,  nor  in  my  earlier  days 
had  I  been  the  favorite.  My  brother  Henry, 
better  looking,  brighter,  gayer,  more  fascinating, 
had  won  the  admiration  of  the  old  man's  heart. 

"  He  is  my  idol,"  he  would  say,  "  my  good,  my 
brave,  my  noble  son." 

I,  too,  had  gradually  learned  to  praise  his  talents 
and  wonder  what  would  be  his  success  in  the 

181 


1 82  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

busy,  driving,  pleasure-seeking  world.  The  suc- 
cess which  I  had  dreamed  of  for  him  never  came 
to  pass. 

In  1883  he  went  abroad.  For  several  months 
we  heard  nothing.  Finally  my  father  wrote  to 
his  lawyers  to  investigate  his  son's  peculiar 
silence.  After  waiting  some  weeks  we  learned 
the  truth. 

Henry  had  married  in  France.  His  wife  was 
beneath  him  in  education,  position,  and  birth  ;  a 
beauty,  so  we  heard. 

My  father's  anger  burst  forth  and  justly.  He 
swore,  he  cabled,  he  wrote  ;  but  all  to  no  purpose ; 
the  torrent  of  his  wrath  was  of  no  avail. 

My  brother  sent  word  that  in  truth  his  mar- 
riage had  been  hasty,  but  in  no  way  degrading  to 
his  family  name  or  his  pride. 

"  My  wife  is  a  lady,"  he  wrote,  "  and  until  you 
decide  to  receive  her  becomingly  she  declines  to 
communicate  with  either  of  you." 

The  year  following  this  event  brought  many 
changes. 

Henry  wrote  of  his  separation  from  his  wife. 
Gossips  accused  her  of  having  left  him  secretly 
after  meeting  with  some  former  lover. 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  183 

My  anger  at  these  reports  was  only  equalled  by 
my  father's  mortification.  He  cabled  his  son  to 
return  at  once  to  America,  but  to  this  no  answer 
came.  The  old  man  never  saw  his  son  again. 

My  father  was  taken  ill ;  over-anxiety  and  ner- 
vous strain  the  doctors  said.  He  rallied  but  little, 
and  when  the  winter  winds  were  blowing  they 
swept  across  his  new-made  grave. 

"I  missed  him.  I  mourned  him.  Like  all  man- 
kind I  knew  I  had  to  live.  Dulness  overpowered 
me.  Loneliness  depressed  me.  An  ocean  voy- 
age was  recommended.  The  idea  seized  me. 
Going  to  New  York,  I  took  the  first  steamer  to 
Havre. 

I  sailed  away  at  an  early  hour  one  bright  morn- 
ing. The  winds  were  high,  the  seas  rough,  but 
our  ship  went  nobly  on.  The  change,  the  excite- 
ment, the  fresh  air,  all  combined  to  exhilarate  my 
spirits.  I  was  stronger  than  I  had  been  for  a 
long,  long  time. 

Once  landed  I  went  straight  to  Paris.  But  the 
atmosphere  of  the  place  annoyed  me.  The  con- 
stant tide  of  pleasure  seekers  mocked  my  sorrow, 
the  din  and  noise  of  the  crowded  streets  failed  to 
rouse  my  brain. 


1 84  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

I  repacked  my  portmanteau,  and  was  soon  en 
route  for  Switzerland. 

I  went  through  to  Geneva,  where,  rinding  lux- 
ury and  quiet,  I  remained  until  June. 

It  was  too  early  for  the  usual  crowd,  and  I 
found  myself  well  installed,  without  that  dreaded 
swarm  of  bustling  men,  fussing  women,  crying 
children,  constantly  met  with  in  the  heated 
months  of  travel. 

One  beautiful  bright  morning  I  took  the 
steamer  for  Vevay.  How  glorious  the  view 
struck  me  that  first  night  as  I  stood  upon  the 
terrace  in  the  gardens  of  the  Hotel  Monnet ! 
Peace  at  last  seemed  near  me.  The  still  waters 
of  the  lake  cast  their  reflection  of  rest  into  my 
soul. 

Reluctantly  I  turned  my  steps  from  such  a 
scene.  Crossing  the  gardens  I  passed  into  the 
hotel.  A  friend  joined  me.  The  man  was  an 
American  who  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  Vevay,  having  been  educated  there  under  a 
certain  churchman  of  England. 

Leaning  a  moment  against  one  of  the  tall  mar- 
ble columns  of  the  hallway,  I  took  my  cigarette 
from  my  mouth  and  placed  it  on  a  small  iron 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  185 

table,  of  which  one  sees  many  in  the  Swiss  inns 
of  to-day. 

The  soft  night  air  had  made  me  sleepy,  and  it 
was  not  without  difficulty  I  suppressed  a  yawn. 

"Come  into  the  billiard-room  and  I  will  play 
you  a  game  of  pool,"  said  the  American. 

I  made  a  step  forward  to  comply  with  his  wish 
when  my  attention  was  arrested  by  a  noise  of 
voices  on  the  first  floor  above.  I  raised  my  head 
with  languid  curiosity,  when  my  eyes  fell  upon 
the  most  beautiful  woman  I  had  ever  beheld. 

She  was  coming  down  the  broad  staircase  with 
a  grace  of  movement  most  charming ;  her  erect 
form  well  crowned  by  the  shapely  head ;  her 
movements  proud,  her  step  firm.  Such  bearing 
told  of  blood  and  birth. 

"Who  is  that  beautiful  woman?"  I  quickly 
asked  of  my  companion. 

"  Madame  de  Grandcourt." 

"  Madame  de  Grandcourt."  It  conveyed  noth- 
ing. French  names  are  but  a  mystery  to  English- 
speaking  men. 

"A  widow?" 

The  American  nodded. 

"She  is  singularly  beautiful,"  said  I. 


1 86  FRIENDSHIP? 

"Yes,  but  without  friends  in  these  parts." 

"  Why  so  ? " 

"  Oh,  she  is  too  proud  to  want  them,  I  sup- 
pose." 

I  turned  to  get  a  better  look  at  the  woman's 
face  as  she  swept  quickly  past  us.  She  raised  her 
lids  slightly :  I  could  see  the  deep  violet  eyes, 
shaded  by  their  dark  lashes. 

There  was  a  faint  odor  of  roses,  flowers  so 
strangely  sweet.  A  glimpse  of  lace  and  ribbons, 
silk  stockings,  pointed  shoes.  Just  .then  a  gust 
of  wind  came  in  from  the  gardens.  The  gas  jets 
flickered.  The  lamps  grew  brighter.  Putting 
my  hands  to  my  eyes  I  would  clear  my  clouding 
vision.  I  looked  again,  but  the  graceful  woman 
had  gone. 


Before  the  week  was  over  I  had  met  and  talked 
with  Jeanne  de  Grandcourt  and  her  niece  Marie,  a 
child  just  in  her  teens.  This  introduction  only 
served  to  show  me  more  clearly  the  grace  of  her 
beauty,  the  charm  of  her  presence. 

I  would  sit  in  the  gardens  after  dinner  watch- 
ing for  the  moment  when  she  would  cross  the 


FRIENDSHIP?  187 

threshold  and  come  out  into  the  darkness  where 
I  sat.  I  remember  one  evening,  after  I  had  been 
away  for  a  week,  my  delight  on  seeing  her  coming 
toward  me  from  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 
I  stepped  eagerly  forward,  and,  taking  her  hand, 
led  her  to  a  seat  on  the  upper  part  of  the  terrace. 

What  made  her  fingers  tremble,  the  rich  color 
rush  from  her  lips  ? 

"  You  are  ill,  Madame,"  said  I,  turning  my  face 
to  her.  She  stood  quite  still,  and  with  a  quick 
movement  of  her  head  feigned  to  hide  the  dark 
blush  in  her  cheeks. 

"  No,  no,  Monsieur  Herbert,  I  am  not  ill,  only 
frightened.  You  came  too  suddenly  toward  me 
when  I  did  not  know  you  were  in  Vevay." 

"Why  should  my  unexpected  presence  frighten 
you  ? "  I  boldly  asked. 

"  You  come  so  quickly,  so  unexpectedly.  Ah  ! 
you  Americans  make  movements  so  different  from 
the  French.  It  is  always  impatiently,  nervously, 
quickly.  Why  are  you  like  that  ?  There  is  plenty 
of  time  for  all  things.  See,  I  do  not  rush,  I  do 
not  hurry.  What  use  is  it  ?  My  life  will  be  quite 
long  enough  in  which  to  fulfil  my  desires." 

"That  depends.     Have  you  many  desires?" 


1 8  8  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

"Yes,  and  many  have  been  gratified." 

"With  me  it  is  different,"  I  replied.  "I  have 
had  disappointments  and  have  watched  others 
bear  them." 

"  Have  you,  Monsieur  Herbert  ?  I  am  sorry. 
You  look  to  me  like  a  man  who  has  been  blessed 
with  good-fortune." 

"  True,  I  have  never  been  poor  in  worldly  pos- 
sessions ;  but  through  the  lives  of  others,  I  have 
suffered." 

"  Tell  me  how  ? " 

"  It  is  hardly  for  you  to  listen  to  these  troubles  ; 
you  are  young,  beautiful,  and  good."  She  turned 
her  great  eyes  upon  me,  then  quickly  lowered  the 
drooping  lids. 

"  You  think  me  unsympathetic,"  she  said. 

"  No,"  I  cried,  "  not  that ;  you  could  never  be 
unsympathetic,  only  you  have  not  had,  perhaps, 
great  experiences  with  the  world.  I  sometimes 
think  most  people  are  too  cruel,  too  cold  to  under- 
stand." She  put  out  her  slender  white  hands, 
and  for  a  moment  the  long  fingers  touched  my 
arm. 

"  You  must  not  say  these  things ;  they  are 
false." 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  1 89 

"  You  do  not  know  to  what  I  am  particularly 
alluding  when  you  deny  their  truth,"  I  answered. 

"Ah!  Monsieur  Herbert,  you  make  it  difficult 
for  me  to  answer.  I  know  nothing  of  your  life,  so 
little  have  you  told  me.  Truly  I  should  make  no 
criticism." 

"  Would  you  listen  if  I  were  to  tell  you  more  ? " 
She  was  looking  at  me  with  those  wondrous  eyes. 
Her  head  slightly  forward,  her  body  bent,  not 
to  disturb  the  graceful  lines  in  her  figure.  Her 
white  hands  lay  idly  in  her  lap,  the  jewels  on  her 
fingers  flashed  in  the  darkness.  I  felt  the  charm 
of  her  presence,  the  strange  power  of  her  beauty. 
Oh,  for  the  right  to  touch  those  hands  —  those 
lips  !  It  was  a  mad  dream.  What  was  I  to  this 
woman  ?  If  for  a  moment  I  even  allowed  her  to 
read  my  thoughts,  what  then  ?  Would  she  not 
rebuke  me,  scorn  me,  deride  me?  I  felt  the 
absurdity  of  it  all.  I  drew  back. 

"  Come,"  I  cried,  "  let  us  move  from  here.  It  is 
best  for  us  to  go." 

"  I  am  very  comfortable,  very  contented,  Mon- 
sieur Herbert ;  why  do  you  wish  to  go  from  here?" 
I  rose  to  my  feet.  I  pointed  to  the  quay. 

"We  can  go  out  there  on  the  lake  and   join 


1 90  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

those  pleasure  seekers  gliding  over  the  water."  I 
picked  up  the  small,  fluffy  wrap  from  behind 
Madame  de  Grandcourt's  chair,  and  giving  her 
my  arm  led  her  out  on  the  quay.  The  little  boats 
were  skimming  along  the  placid,  clear  waters 
beneath  the  soft  light  of  the  moon,  the  great 
mountains  opposite  seeming  to  grow  higher  as 
they  stood  in  silent  judgment  of  the  night. 

We  were  soon  in  our  small  boat  moving  over 
the  lake  in  the  direction  of  Chillon. 

"  I  should  have  brought  the  child  Marie, 
Monsieur  Herbert ;  I  did  not  mean  to  come 
alone." 

"  What  of  it  ? "  I  asked,  a  pang  of  jealousy  seiz- 
ing me.  "  Marie  would  only  grow  frightened,  and, 
childlike,  might  upset  the  boat.  No,  no,  to-night 
we  shall  row  alone.  It  is  possible,  even  probable, 
that  I  shall  leave  Switzerland  soon.  I  should  like 
your  companionship  during  this  one  evening  with- 
out the  addition  of  Mademoiselle  Marie." 

I  do  not  know  how  long  we  had  been  in  the 
little  boat,  watching  the  moon  with  her  kingdom 
of  stars  overhead,  when  I  noticed  Jeanne  had 
grown  tired  ;  an  intense  pallor  had  spread  over 
her  face.  I  had  been  telling  her  about  my  father, 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  191 

—  his  home,  his  life,  his  death,  his  son.  At  first 
she  had  listened  ;  but  gradually  the  wondrous 
eyes  grew  weary,  her  interest  flagged. 

"  You  have  been  so  good  to  let  me  speak  of  all 
this  to  you,"  I  said.  "  These  topics  have  grown 
sacred  to  me,  for  pride  has  sealed  my  lips." 

She  bowed  her  head,  but  made  no  sound. 

"  My  brother's  marriage  was  the  hardest  blow 
we  ever  had,"  I  continued. 

"Why?" 

"  Why  ?  Because  he  has  disgraced  us.  Ruined 
his  future,  his  pride,  his  name." 

"  And  you  blame  him  for  all  these  things  ? " 

"  I  blame  a  man  for  falling  in  love  with  the  sort 
of  woman  his  wife  has  proved  to  be." 

"  And  you  say  his  wife  is  very  beautiful  and 
fair  ? " 

"  I  have  heard  it  ;  but  beauty  is  not  everything. 
Character  stands  firmer  in  life's  great  battle.  I 
believe  I  should  hate  such  a  woman  for  her  very 
fairness." 

"  It  may  be  that  your  brother  is  in  the  wrong." 

"My  brother  in  the  wrong!"  I  cried.  The  sug- 
gestion was  horrible.  "  But  his  wife  —  if  such  she 
can  be  called  "  — 


1 92  FRIENDSHIP  f 

"  Hush.  Say  no  more.  You  are  speaking  of 
one  whom  you  will  never  really  know.  Do  not 
cry  out  against  her  wrongs.  Monsieur  Herbert, 
forgive  this  woman,  forgive  her  for  my  sake." 
Jeanne  leaned  forward.  I  could  plainly  see  the 
outline  of  her  head.  Her  eyes  were  partly  closed, 
her  face  blanched. 

"  For  your  sake  I  would  do  much,"  I  exclaimed. 
She  put  out  her  jewelled  hands.  I  could  see 
them  stretched  toward  me. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  "  for  my  sake." 

I  grasped  my  oars,  my  head  burned.  Pulling 
vigorously  my  even  strokes  soon  brought  us  to  the 
shore.  I  saw  the  face  of  the  woman  grow  paler  in 
the  still,  wan  light  of  the  moon. 

"  I  could  never  forgive  her,  not  even  for  your 
sake." 

"  But  what  if  this  very  woman  were  unhappy 
now,  this  moment,  would  you  have  no  pity  ? " 

"  None,"  I  answered,  while  I  heard  the  splish 
splash  of  the  oars  alone  breaking  the  stillness  of 
the  night. 

During  the  next  week  of  my  stay  in  the  quaint 
Swiss  town,  I  had  many  moments  of  anxiety,  many 
of  pleasure.  I  often  met  Jeanne  on  her  walks. 


FRIEiVDSHIP?  193 

But  she  pleaded  the  dampness  of  the  night  air 
affecting  her  chest,  and  compelling  her  to  remain 
in-doors  during  the  evening's  cool.  Sometimes  I 
would  see  the  child  Marie  sitting  in  the  gardens  ; 
but  when  I  approached  her,  she  invariably  gath- 
ered up  her  books  and  ran  away.  At  first  this 
struck  me  as  amusing,  but  later  I  grew  to  hate  her 
for  it.  Her  eyes  were  so  black,  her  teeth  so  white 
in  smiling.  Her  strange  appearance  had  a  most 
maddening  effect  upon  me.  One  day,  when  my 
patience  was  exhausted,  I  shook  my  finger  at  her, 
saying  loudly,  "  Naughty  little  girl."  She  only 
tossed  her  dark  curls,  and  answered,  "Je  ne  com- 
prends  pas,  Monsieur. 

How  quickly  the  week  went  by  !  I  managed  to 
meet  and  talk  with  Madame  de  Grandcourt  one 
morning.  I  was  with  her  a  long  time.  When  we 
parted  it  was  with  the  understanding  that  I  should 
follow  them  to  Paris  within  a  month.  I  put  the 
address  she  gave  me  safely  away  in  my  pocket, 
making  many  assurances  of  my  arrival  ere  long. 

She  was  very  kind.  But  I  was  perplexed  to 
exactly  comprehend  her.  A  warm  hand-shake,  a 
few  gracious  words !  Was  this,  then,  the  ending 
of  my  dream  in  which  she  was  my  heroine  ? 


1 94  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

Marie  bade  me  good-by  with  more  enthusiasm 
than  I  had  anticipated  ;  but  when  I  said  in  my 
best  French,  "  Mademoiselle,  it  is  but  au  revoir" 
she  had  gazed  at  me  in  astonishment,  and  an- 
swered, "Adieu,  Monsieur!  Adieu!  Adieu!" 

It  is  useless,  painful,  to  dwell  even  now  upon 
those  first  moments  which  followed  the  ending  of 
my  happiest  days.  I  have  put  their  memory  away, 
buried  from  my  life.  I  thought  I  had  found  a  new 
anticipation  in  the  minutes,  a  new  joy  in  the  hours. 
I  was  changed  into  a  stronger,  better  man. 


I  had  not  expected  letters  from  France,  yet  was 
I  not  disappointed  when  day  after  day  went  by 
bringing  me  no  news  ?  The  month  had  not  quite 
expired  when  my  impatience  caused  me  to  leave 
Switzerland.  How  could  I  remain  away  until  the 
appointed  hour  ?  The  train  sped  quickly.  Faster 
and  faster  it  flew  through  the  mountainous  country 
of  the  Swiss.  The  engine  trembled  and  shook, 
hurrying  on  and  on,  but  I  felt  the  moments 
hours,  the  hours  eternity.  Nearer  and  nearer  I 
approached  the  gay  city.  More  and  more  anxious 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  195 

I  grew  —  a  thousand  fears  crowded  my  brain  to 
bring  forth  a  hundred  imaginary  questions,  a 
hundred  unreal  answers.  What  if  Jeanne  should 
not  be  there  ? 

Once  at  Paris,  I  felt  more  secure  of  my  plans, 
more  certain  of  my  projects.  Directly  I  drove  to 
the  Hotel  Meurice,  ordered  my  breakfast,  yet 
scarcely  noting  what  I  ate,  so  impatient  was  I  to 
reach  the  address  in  the  Rue  B . 

An  hour  later  I  found  myself  in  the  busy 
streets.  Hailing  a  cab,  I  told  the  cocker  to  drive 
towards  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  by  the  Avenue  des 
Champs-Elysees.  We  went  but  slowly.  Reach- 
ing at  length  the  Rue  B ,  we  turned  to  the 

right. 

"  Numero  75  ! "  I  called  to  the  cocker.  Why 
had  I  chosen  such  a  slow  horse  ? 

"Je  rial  pas  de  temps  a  perdre  !  "  I  yelled.  In 
vain  I  peered  from  the  windows  at  the  numbers 
on  the  gates.  I  drew  my  precious  slip  from  my 
pocket.  Yes,  there  were  the  figures  7  and  5. 

"  Numero  75,  cocker  !  " 

"  //  riexiste  pas  dans  cette  rue  ci,  Monsieur,  ce 
numero  la!"  I  could  not  believe  my  ears.  There 
was  no  such  number  in  the  Rue  B ?  Again, 


1 96  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

frantic,  I  consulted  my  slip  of  paper.  Possibly  I 
had  made  some  mistake.  No,  the  names  were 
alike.  I  had  been  fooled.  A  great  fear  took 
possession  of  me.  What  if  Madame  de  Grand- 
court  did  not  live  in  Paris  ?  Had  she  deceived 
me  ?  A  woman  with  so  fair  a  face  and  such 
wondrous  eyes !  No,  no,  it  was  incredible  — 
impossible. 

"  Que  voulez-vous,  Monsieur?"  The  voice  of 
the  cocker  roused  me.  Was  I  dreaming,  and  had 
I  really  ever  met  a  person  by  the  name  of  de 
Grandcourt  ? 

"  A  r hotel"  I  replied  vaguely. 

I  reached  my  room  I  knew  not  how.  I  sat 
down  on  the  first  chair  within  reach,  I  gazed 
wearily  at  the  dull  white  walls  of  the  rooms 
opposite.  I  saw  figures  passing  two  and  fro 
behind  the  curtains. 

Could  it  be  that  I  had  come  to  Paris  expecting 
to  meet  with  friends  —  friends  that  had  never 
existed  ? 

My  brain  ran  on  at  random.  I  had  surely  turned 
into  a  fool.  I  laughed  out  loud.  The  strange, 
harsh  sounds  pleased  me.  The  walls  echoed  them. 
I  pressed  my  hands  to  my  eyes.  My  head  whirled. 


FRIENDSHIP?  197 

I  was  in  a  fever.  A  chill  seized  me,  grasping 
tightly  my  arms,  my  limbs,  in  its  cold  clasp.  I 
shivered,  I  closed  the  window.  Seeing  a  sofa  in 
the  corner  of  the  room,  I  crept  towards  it.  A 
sudden  sharpness  entered  my  left  side.  My  eyes 
closed,  my  ears  sang.  The  room  was  turning,  the 
walls  closing.  The  light  grew  dimmer,  the  sun- 
shine darker.  My  senses  fled.  I  made  a  struggle, 
an  effort  —  it  was  no  use,  for  I  had  fainted. 

It  must  have  been  the  loud  ringing  of  the  court- 
yard bell  which  brought  me  to  again.  For  the 
moment  I  could  not  remember  where  I  was  — 
then  slowly,  surely,  reality  dawned  upon  me.  In 
Paris  !  But  why  ?  what  had  brought  me  to  Paris  ? 
The  city  which  I  had  always  hated.  I  had  come 
for  some  purpose.  What  was  that  purpose  ?  The 
truth  rushed  to  me.  Again  I  went  through  the 
agony  of  my  disappointment,  the  mortification  to 
my  pride.  But  at  this  moment  an  end  came 
to  my  reflections  by  a  loud  knocking  at  my  door. 
I  rose  and  opened  it.  The  concierge  handed  me 
a  note.  It  was,  however,  only  an  invitation  to  the 
ball  of  the  Legation  enclosed  with  a  letter  from 
a  friend,  an  American  who  was  desirous  of  making 
up  a  party  to  go  to  the  Hotel  of  the  Foreign 


1 98  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

Minister.  Hearing,  quite  by  accident  from  a  man 
who  saw  me  entering  the  Meurice,  that  I  was  in 
Paris,  he  had  sent  the  note  in  hopes  of  finding 
my  whereabouts  and  gaining  my  consent  to  join 
them. 

I  was  in  no  mood  for  festivities.  I  never 
dreamed  of  going  to  a  ball.  But  at  that  moment 
my  mourning,  which  I  had  hitherto  held  so  sacred, 
appeared  to  me  a  farce.  Why  should  I  mourn  ? 
If  I  died  on  the  morrow,  who  would  weep  for  me  ? 
I  sat  down  at  my  desk.  I  wrote  an  acceptance. 
Sealing  the  envelope,  I  handed  it  to  the  concierge. 
"  Send  it  at  once,"  said  I,  closing  the  door  with  a 
sharp  sound.  Then  I  opened  my  trunk.  I  began 
to  unpack  my  things.  I  took  out  my  dress-clothes 
with  a  sort  of  fierce  pleasure.  How  neatly  they 
were  put  away  beneath  the  well-packed  trays ! 
Many  little  familiar  articles  tumbled  at  my  feet, 
trophies  and  souvenirs  which  I  had  bought  in 
Switzerland.  I  cast  them  aside.  Their  beauty 
vanished.  I  began  to  arrange  my  garments  on 
the  bed,  making  every  preparation  for  the  ball 
before  going  down-stairs.  I  dined  in  a  private 
salon  that  night. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  I  reached  the  Avenue 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  1 99 

Hoche.  I  found  my  friends  with  little  difficulty, 
and  together  we  entered  the  lighted  parlors. 

It  was  an  interesting  entertainment  to  those 
who  were  willing  to  regard  themselves  favorably 
—  every  kind  of  personage  present,  almost  every 
nationality  represented  —  French,  English,  Ameri- 
cans, Germans,  Spaniards. 

I  wandered  from  room  to  room  in  an  aimless 
fashion.  Truly,  I  was  but  a  fish  out  of  water.  I 
found  scarcely  any  one  I  knew,  even  in  so  goodly 
a  crowd.  My  evening  dragged  wearily.  I  talked 
for  a  time  with  a  Frenchman  whom  I  had  met 
years  before  in  Washington.  The  man  was  clever, 
and  his  remarks  amused  me. 

It  grew  late,  the  guests  were  leaving.  I  could 
hear  the  carriages  rolling  from  the  door.  I  was 
standing  near  the  entrance,  preparatory  to  my 
departure,  when  a  woman,  tall  and  graceful,  passed 
quickly  out  the  door.  There  was  something  in 
her  movements  which  attracted  me.  I  bent 
eagerly  forward  with  the  hope  of  seeing  her  face, 
but  I  was  too  late.  She  walked  quickly,  and  in 
another  moment  she  was  gone.  My  head  whirled. 
My  heart  beat.  Turning  to  the  Frenchman,  I 
inquired  the  name  of  the  fair  stranger. 


200  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

"  That  is  Madame  de  Grandcourt,"  he  answered, 
"  she  is  "  —  The  din  of  the  music,  the  clatter  of 
voices,  drowned  the  last  words  of  his  sentence. 
But  I  had  heard  enough :  it  was  Jeanne  whom  I  had 
known,  of  whom  I  had  dreamed,  despaired,  and 
lost.  My  heart  was  in  a  tumult.  I  turned  to 
question  the  man  beside  me,  but  he  had  been 
carried  from  me  in  the  laughing,  moving  throng. 

The  next  day  I  concluded  to  send  for  my  French 
friend,  but  he  answered  that  a  pressing  engage- 
ment prevented  his  accepting  the  invitation  to 
luncheon  which  I  had  offered  him.  On  second 
thought  I  was  glad  of  his  declination.  It  struck 
me  then  as  unmanly  that  I  should  wish  to  question 
any  one  concerning  a  woman  so  beautiful,  so 
fair. 

It  was  in  the  Bois  that  I  first  came  face  to  face 
with  Madame  de  Grandcourt.  She  was  walking 
in  company  with  Marie.  I  saw  her  come  toward 
me.  I  nerved  myself  to  pass  her.  She  turned  her 
head  as  my  steps  came  close  to  hers.  I  touched 
my  hat,  her  beautiful  eyes  met  mine.  I  stopped. 
I  heard  the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  saying 
hoarsely,  "  You  have  forgotten  me,  Madame  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  I  have  not  forgotten  you,  Monsieur 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  20 1 

Herbert.  But  in  Paris  one  meets  so  many  faces. 
You  have  been  here  long  ?  " 

"  I  arrived  last  week.  I  went  to  see  you  on 
the  day  of  my  arrival." 

"  Yes  !     You  are  very  kind." 

"At  Number  75,  Rue  B .  But  there  must 

have  been  some  mistake  in  the  address  you  gave 
me,  for  there  is  no  house  corresponding  to  it." 

"  Number  75  ? "  She  looked  astonished.  "  Ah ! 
yes,  of  course,  we  have  moved  since  then."  She 
gave  a  little  laugh.  "  You  made  a  mistake,  Mon- 
sieur, a  mistake  in  the  numbers.  But  I  now  live 
at  105  Champs-Elysees.  You  must  come  there 
the  next  time."  I  bowed  my  thanks.  I  would 
have  joined  her  in  her  walk,  but  she  stretched 
out  her  hand,  giving  me  the  soft  gloved  fingers. 
Her  smile  was  radiant. 

"  Au  revoir,  Monsieur  Herbert,"  she  said.  I 
turned  and  quickly  left  her.  I  looked  neither 
to  the  right  nor  left,  but  walked  straight  on 
through  the  shaded  avenue  of  trees  near  the 
entrance  of  the  Bois. 

The  low,  incessant  rumble  of  the  passing  car- 
riages, the  brisk  movement  of  the  pedestrians, 
seemed  to  me  but  the  cadence  of  a  rhyme.  My 


202  FRIENDSHIP? 

steps  were  light,  my  bearing  easy,  as  on  I  strode 
through  the  wide  boulevards  and  streets. 

I  waited  several  days  before  calling  upon 
Jeanne.  I  had  almost  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
call  upon  her  at  all.  Our  brief  meeting  had 
seemed  so  unsatisfactory  —  so  different  from 
what  I  had  planned  or  expected.  Temptation  is 
sometimes  too  strong.  I  yielded.  Just  once  I 
repeated  to  myself  as  I  approached  the  Champs- 
Elysees. 

An  old  concierge  answered  my  ring  as  I  pre- 
sented myself  to  ask  if  Madame  de  Grandcourt 
was  at  home.  "  Madame  de  Grandcourt,"  said  the 
man — "yes,  yes,  she  is  at  home,  an  troisttme." 
I  mounted  the  winding  stairs,  followed  by  the  old 
fellow.  He  pointed  to  the  folding-doors,  say- 
ing, "  Madame  lives  there." 

Timidly  I  rang  the  bell.  The  doors  flew  softly 
open,  a  smart  man-servant  stood  before  me.  He 
ushered  me  through  a  square  hall,  hung  in  dark 
colors  with  here  and  there  a  spot  of  white  and 
gold.  My  name  was  announced.  A  tall,  slender 
figure  rose,  and  I  recognized  the  foreign  accent 
and  musical  tones  of  Jeanne's  voice. 

"  Your  memory  is  very  good,  Monsieur  Her- 
bert ! " 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  203 

"  I  could  but  avail  myself  of  your  invitation," 
I  replied,  my  dignity  rising.  "When  you  gave  me 
your  new  number,  it  was  the  permission  from  you 
to  make  use  of  it."  She  smiled.  Her  eyes 
seemed  very  bright.  Pointing  to  an  easy-chair 
she  bade  me  be  seated. 

So  this  was  Madame  de  Grandcourt's  home. 

Culture  and  refinement  were  plainly  visible. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  specimens  of  the  best 
artists,  Gerome,  Breton,  Troyon,  Vibert.  Two 
Meissoniers,  marvellously  colored,  rested  on  a 
table  whose  cloth  of  blue  velvet  formed  a  goodly 
relief  for  the  figures  by  the  great  painter.  There 
were  in  all  directions  pieces  of  antique  furniture, 
French  clocks,  old  bronzes,  and  Dresden  orna- 
ments ;  while  from  where  I  sat,  I  could  see  the 
white  statuary  in  the  alcoves  of  the  hall.  There 
were  rugs  and  cushions,  lamps  and  tables,  every- .. 
where.  A  charming  apartment,  a  beautiful  home. 

I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  miss  Marie,  whose 
presence  had  been  such  a  constant  annoyance  in 
Switzerland. 

My  hostess  was  even  more  fair  than  during 
those  first  days  of  our  intimacy.  Her  manner 
was  quite  cordial,  perhaps  at  times  it  lacked 


204  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

enthusiasm.  But  then  I  knew  myself  to  be  over- 
sensitive, and  my  judgments  often  wrong. 

When  I  rose  to  take  my  leave,  which  I  did  after 
a  brief  half  hour,  she  flushed  greatly.  I  stood  for 
a  moment  irresolute — waiting  for  the  invitation 
to  call  again.  She  laughed  softly  ;  her  eyes  were 
brighter  then. 

"  When  you  are  passing,  remember  you  are 
always  welcome  here."  How  I  had  misjudged 
her  sincerity  ! 

"Yes,"  I  cried,  pressing  her  hand  and  bowing 
low;  "and  may  I  come  very  soon?"  Her  fingers 
had  grown  cold  in  my  touch,  her  lips  trembled. 

"  You  may  be  sure  of  finding  me  in  the  even- 
ings," she  said. 

I  went  away  satisfied  —  more  satisfied  than  I 
had  been  for  weeks. 


When  I  returned  to  the  hotel  a  surprise  was  in 
store  for  me  of  which  I  had  never  dreamed. 
On  entering  the  courtyard,  a  man  rushed  toward 
me,  his  cheeks  flushed,  his  eyes  flashing  with 
anticipation  and  joy.  He  seized  my  hands,  and, 
turning  me  round  to  the  light,  exclaimed,  — 


FRIENDSHIP?  205 

"Charles!" 

"Henry!"  I  cried,  as  I  recognized  the  hand- 
some face  of  my  beloved  brother. 

"  It  was  quite  by  accident  I  heard  you  were  in 
Paris." 

"  I  have  known  nothing  of  your  whereabouts," 
I  answered  sadly,  "for  many  weeks  and  many 
months." 

He  drew  me  towards  the  salon,  and  pushing 
open  the  glass  doors,  begged  that  we  might  be 
alone.  How  much  we  had  to  talk  about !  We 
even  went  back  to  our  childhood,  discussing  the 
old  associations,  the  old  ties.  Yes,  we  had  always 
loved  each  other  —  my  handsome  brother  and  I. 
We  discussed  our  past,  our  future,  our  plans,  our 
hopes. 

It  was  late  before  we  parted,  and  as  I  grasped 
his  hand,  I  begged  him  to  come  soon  again. 

"To-morrow,"  I  cried,  as  I  saw  his  tall  form 
disappearing  through  the  doorway. 

I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Henry  during  the  days 
which  followed  our  happy  meeting.  I  found  him 
changed  perhaps,  but  then  he  had  suffered  much. 
He  alluded  but  once  to  his  misfortunes,  to  his 
wife. 


206  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

"  She  was  the  love  of  my  youth,"  he  said,  "  so 
will  she  be  the  love  of  my  old  age." 

My  brows  contracted.  Should  I  have  to  listen 
to  this  detested  subject,  to  hear  of  the  woman 
whose  conduct  I  condemned  ?  No,  no,  it  would  be 
expecting  too  much.  I  could  now  overlook  the 
sorrow  which  my  brother  had  caused  my  father 
and  myself,  but  I  could  go  no  farther.  He 
eagerly  explained  that  she  was  beautiful,  good,  and 
true.  That  their  separation  had  come  through 
hasty  words  and  from  no  wrong  purpose.  I  leaned 
forward,  and  touching  his  arm,  spoke  in  a  whisper, — 

"Let  this  subject  die  between  us,  my  boy.  I 
cannot  forget  what  our  kind  parent  suffered 
through  this  woman  whom  you  call  your  wife." 
The  blood  rushed  to  his  cheeks,  his  lips ;  the 
veins  stood  out  like  cords  in  his  white  temples. 

"Charles,"  he  cried,  "are  you  mad  ?" 

"  No,  I  am  not  mad :  far  from  it.  But  do  not 
let  us  quarrel.  Come,  be  friends." 

He  seized  my  outstretched  hands,  his  blue  eyes 
grew  darker,  and  his  lips  parted  in  a  haughty 
smile. 

"  The  name  of  my  wife  to  me  is  sacred,"  he  said. 

He  never  alluded  to  her  again. 


FRIENDSHIP?  207 

During  the  days  which  followed  in  quick  succes- 
sion, as  happy  days  always  do,  I  had  seen  my 
friends  in  the  Champs-Elysees  quite  often.  But 
my  time  was  more  likely  to  be  claimed  by 
Henry.  Often  would  I  have  escaped  even  from 
my  brother  to  the  rest  and  quiet  of  that  beautiful 
home. 

I  had  become  a  regular  visitor,  as  sure  now 
of  my  welcome  as  I  had  at  first  been  doubtful 
of  it. 

I  could  keep  nothing  from  Jeanne,  whose  plead- 
ing eyes  invited  confidences.  I  gave  her  mine. 

When  I  told  her  about  the  sudden  appearance 
of  my  brother  her  face  lighted  up  with  its  radiant 
smile. 

''Why,  you  look  almost  as  happy  as  I  do,"  said 
I,  watching  her  rich  color  come  and  go  like  the 
shadow  and  sunshine  of  an  autumn  day. 

"  I  rejoice  in  your  happiness,"  she  said.  In 
this  way  it  had  become  very  easy  for  me  to  talk 
of  Henry.  Had  I  not  confided  his  troubles  to 
her  ?  Where  could  I  find  a  more  interested 
listener,  a  more  sympathetic  adviser  ? 

"So  your  brother  Henri  —  Monsieur  Henri  — 
wants  to  see  his  wife  !  Be  quite  frank  with  me 


208  FRIENDSHIP? 

—  does  he  forgive  her,  pity  her,  and  love  her 
still  ? "  Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  I  saw 
again  the  high  Swiss  mountains  and  the  placid 
waters  of  the  lake. 

"As  he  loved  her  once,  Jeanne,  so  he  loves  her 
still  "  —  She  closed  her  wondrous  eyes,  her 
quivering  lips.  "  You  are,  indeed,  a  good  listener," 
I  cried,  a  blush  of  shame  spreading  over  me. 
"  But  I  am  tiring  you.  Your  face  has  grown 
quite  pale.  What  is  it,  Jeanne  ?  Where  is  it  you 
feel  ill  ? "  I  took  the  slender  hands  in  both  of 
mine.  How  cold  they  were!  "What  is  it?"  I 
murmured  passionately,  as  she  remained  quite 
still  and  pale. 

"  Ah,  it  is  here  !  "  She  withdrew  her  hands,  and 
putting  them  to  her  throat,  murmured,  "Such  a 
lump  just  here !  I  have  it  sometimes.  It  is 
nothing,  Monsieur  Herbert  —  nothing." 

I  cut  my  visit  short  that  night.  Madame  de 
Grandcourt  had  seemed  so  far  from  well.  The 
selfishness  of  man !  Why  did  I  always  talk  on 
unmindful  of  the  sufferings  I  caused  to  her,  my 
best,  my  dearest  friend  ? 

I  felt  myself  strongly  tempted  to  tell  Henry  of 
that  charming  apartment  in  the  Champs-Elysees. 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  209 

But  I  never  did  tell  him.  To  speak  of  Jeanne  to 
any  one,  even  to  my  brother  whom  I  loved  and 
trusted,  was  impossible. 

The  days  flew  by  into  weeks,  the  weeks  intc 
months,  and  still  I  lingered  on  in  Paris. 

One  night  I  persuaded  my  brother  to  accom- 
pany me  to  the  Grand  Opera.  We  had  good 
seats.  The  music  was  excellent.  The  people,  the 
dresses,  the  lights,  the  glitter  —  all  was  Fairyland 
to  me.  Henry  seemed  abstracted,  and  left  during 
the  second  act. 

When  I  was  describing  it  all  to  Jeanne,  a  few 
days  later,  she  laughed  merrily. 

"  I  was  there  in  one  of  the  boxes.  Did  you 
not  see  me,  Monsieur  Herbert  ? " 

"  You  were  at  the  opera  that  night  ?  Did  you 
see  the  man  who  was  with  me  ? "  I  asked,  aston- 
ished in  my  turn.  "It  was  Henry  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  saw  him.  But  he  is  not  like  you,"  she 
added. 

"  No,  not  like  in  disposition  nor  appearance.  I 
could  have  brought  him  to  your  box  if  I  had  only 
known." 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  was  not  my  box ;  I  was  with 
friends." 


2 1 0  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

I  stooped  to  pick  up  a  book  which  had  fallen  to 
the  floor.  On  the  first  page  was  written  "  Marie 
de  Grandcourt." 

"  It  belongs  to  your  niece,"  I  said. 

"  No,  no  !  it  was  my  mother's  book.  But  you 
should  read  it,  —  so  interesting,  so  clever  !  " 

"  Your  mother's  book  ?  "  said  I.  "  How  is  it 
that  her  name  is  de  Grandcourt  too  ?  " 

The  color  rose  to  her  face  and  flushed  it  crimson. 

"When  I  lost  my  husband,  I  took  back  my 
maiden  name." 

"  Is  that  a  French  custom  ? "  I  asked. 

"  No,  it  is  a  fancy,  —  a  fancy  of  mine." 

"And  may  I  ask  how  long  you  have  been 
Madame  de  Grandcourt?" 

"  It  is  some  time  now  since  I  have  had  cause  to 
miss  my  husband." 

"  You  will  never,  as  some  women  are  persuaded, 
forget  his  memory." 

"  Never  !  My  sorrow  will  remain  forever  with 
me."  How  I  longed  just  then  to  bear  her  sorrow, 
cheer  her  loneliness  ! 

"  If  I  can  ever  do  you  any  service,  you  must 
not  hesitate  to  ask  it  of  me."  A  radiant  smile 
lit  up  her  face. 


FRIENDSHIP  ?  211 

"  I  might  take  you  at  your  word,"  she  said. 

"  Do  so,"  I  cried,  "  and  you  will  find  that  my 
word  is  good.  Look  upon  me  as  your  sincere 
friend  now  and  always,  Jeanne." 

"  But  you  could  not  grant  the  one  thing  for 
which  my  heart  is  longing,  my  soul  is  yearning." 

"I  do  not  know  what  that  is." 

"  To  see  my  husband."  A  great  agony  passed 
through  me.  I  scarcely  knew  what  answer  to 
make  her. 

"  You  ask  impossibilities,"  I  said  vaguely. 
"  But  were  it  in  my  power,  I  would  grant  you 
even  that." 

"  I  knew  you  were  good,  kind,  unselfish,"  she 
said. 

Soon  after  that  I  went  on  a  short  trip,  with  my 
brother  and  some  friends,  outside  Paris.  We 
remained  away  about  a  week.  My  impatience  was 
genuine.  I  longed  to  get  back  to  the  crowded 
city  streets. 

The  first  day  of  my  return  I  hastened  to  105. 
I  found  Jeanne  looking  thinner  and  paler  than 
when  I  left.  She  said  the  child  Marie  had  been 
ill,  and  she  had  felt  the  care  of  nursing  her. 

"  Why  do  you  trouble  yourself  so  much  over 
that  child  ?  "  I  asked. 


2 1 2  FRIENDSHIP  ? 

"  She  is  lonely,  pauvre  petite,  without  mother, 
without  father.  I  cannot  be  otherwise  than 
patient  with  her." 

"  That  is  all  very  well,  but  you  carry  your  kind- 
ness too  far.  You  give  yourself  unnecessary 
burdens  for  others,"  I  exclaimed. 

Madame  de  Grandcourt  made  no  answer ;  rising 
suddenly  she  crossed  the  room.  I  watched  her 
graceful  movements.  The  sun  came  in  the  win- 
dow and  fell  upon  her  hair,  her  throat,  her  neck. 
She  was  opening  a  small  desk.  She  moved  the 
key  with  difficulty.  How  fair  she  looked !  In  a 
moment  she  came  toward  me  with  a  package  care- 
fully folded,  closely  sealed.  Returning  to  my 
side,  she  held  it  out  to  me  between  her  white 
fingers. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  this  bears  your  name.  It  is 
the  service  I  am  going  to  ask  of  you."  She  was 
very  near  me.  I  saw  her  rings  flashing.  Their 
light  dazzled  me.  "Ever  since  you  went  away  I 
have  been  thinking  about  it,  and  I  have  concluded 
that  you  are  my  sincere  friend,  and  that  your  word 
is  good!"  She  placed  the  package  in  my  hands. 

"  I  confide  it  to  you,  and  when  you  go  home 
you  can  open  it."  She  was  smiling  all  the  time. 


FRIENDSHIP  f  213 

But  this  proof  of  her  faith  in  me — whatever 
it  might  be  —  dulled  my  brain.  Conversation 
seemed  difficult.  For  I  was  holding  I  knew  not 
what  key  to  my  fate,  what  clew  to  my  destiny. 

Later,  as  I  hurried  through  the  streets,  the 
package  grew  heavier.  I  felt  its  weight.  Will- 
ingly would  I  cast  it  from  me.  But,  no  —  it  was 
Jeanne's  pledge  of  our  friendship  ;  I  would  guard 
it  jealously,  and  with  great  care. 

Once  in  my  own  room,  I  closed  and  locked  the 
door.  I  could  still  plainly  see  the  laughing  eyes, 
the  smiling  face,  of  Madame  de  Grandcourt  as  she 
handed  me  my  prize. 

I  broke  the  seal.  I  tore  off  the  paper  covering. 
Before  my  eyes  lay  the  contents  —  a  letter  bear- 
ing the  inscription  "  Monsieur  Henri  Herbert." 
The  name  burned  like  heated  fire.  My  hands 
trembled.  My  blood  froze.  In  the  moments  that 
followed  I  realized  everything.  I  knew  all.  I 
felt  for  the  bell.  My  eyes  were  dim,  —  I  could 
not  see.  The  valet  knocked.  I  opened  the  door. 

"  Go  out  into  the  street.  The  first  commis- 
sionnaire  you  meet  stop  him.  Hand  him  this 
letter,  together  with  the  address  I  give  you.  Tell 
the  man  to  deliver  the  note  at  once.  If  any 


214  FRIENDSHIP? 

questions  are   asked   concerning   who   may   have 
sent  it,  no  answer  must  be  given." 

I  closed  the  door;  again  I  was  alone.  But  I 
had  fulfilled  my  trust.  /  had  proved  that  I  was 
her  sincere  friend,  and  that  my  word  was  good  ! 


THE  LOST  JEWEL. 


THE   LOST  JEWEL 


MY  story  ends  with  a  word  of  advice.  Let  me 
begin  it  by  affirming  that  the  young  American  of 
to-day  is  better  off  in  his  own  country,  happier 
among  the  men  of  his  own  land,  more  content 
surrounded  by  the  speakers  of  his  own  tongue, 
the  followers  of  his  own  faith. 

How  truly  I  realized  all  this,  how  thoroughly  I 
underwent  the  pangs  of  sickness,  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land  ! 

I  spent  many  years  abroad,  studying  architec- 
ture, frequenting  studios,  discussing  art. 

It  was  a  great  ambition  to  become  a  man  of 
mark,  to  be  renowned,  —  to  live  in  Paris.  I  had 
long  thought  of  it,  ever  dreamed  of  it  in  my  youth- 
ful days. 

But  the  charms  of  a  foreign  education,  the  glit- 
ter of  a  strange  city,  lessened  in  the  clouds  and 
storms  of  a  new  and  broader  life. 
217 


2l8  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

Alone  I  went  to  France,  alone  I  stayed  in  Paris, 
alone  I  strove  in  my  work,  alone  I  sought  for 
knowledge  in  a  far  distant  land. 

My  days  were  busy,  my  evenings  occupied.  In 
the  first  glow  of  enthusiasm,  in  the  first  fervor  of 
hope,  I  failed  to  realize  my  discomforts,  to  read 
the  loneliness  of  my  heart.  But  gradually  my 
position  dawned  upon  me,  gradually  I  longed  to 
make  a  friend. 

It  was  quite  by  chance  I  met  a  young  French- 
man, quite  by  chance  I  learned  to  know  him  well. 
At  first  I  thought  him  self-reliant ;  but  soon  his 
real  nature  spread  throughout  his  words,  his  work. 
He  had  ambitions.  He  longed  to  be  an  artist. 
He  had  talent,  but  of  a  spontaneous,  impracticable 
character,  which  held  him  back  in  his  fight  for 
fame. 

He  would  come  to  me  with  his  pale  face  flush- 
ing, his  eyes  dazzling,  to  tell  me  of  some  bold 
sketch  that  he  had  done.  He  worked  quickly,  he 
used  his  pencil  freely ;  but  soon  I  saw  he  never 
came  out  first.  Some  other  student  always  stood 
before  him  in  the  end.  How  clearly  we  began  to 
see  the  truth  !  We  had  both  failed  —  Pierre  Baton 
and  I. 


THE  LOST  JEWEL.  219 

We  had  ample  means,  so  one  fine  day  we  cast 
aside  our  hopes,  buried  our  ambitions,  and  jour- 
neyed far  from  France. 

Once  away,  we  breathed  more  freely  ;  we  knew 
ourselves  content. 

But  soon  we  missed  the  constant  striving,  the 
daily  occupation  of  our  work. 

Pierre  returned  to  France.  When  I  parted 
from  the  young  Frenchman  I  did  not  expect  to 
meet  with  him  again. 

Five  years  elapsed.  Again  I  was  in  France, 
again  in  Paris.  The  old  student  life  had  vanished, 
the  youthful  days  had  gone. 

One  evening  at  a  cafe  a  young  man  sat  near 
me.  His  pale  face  was  toward  me,  his  eyes  were 
looking  into  mine.  In  a  moment  I  recognized 
him,  in  a  moment  I  was  by  his  side. 

"  Pierre ! "  I  cried,  as  he  stood  erect  and  smil- 
ing. We  sat  down  together.  We  talked  of  the 
old  familiar  scenes.  I  watched  the  foreigner 
closely.  I  saw  that  he  was  older ;  he  was 
changed.  His  face  was  stronger  in  its  expres- 
sion and  outline,  his  character  had  developed,  I 
could  see.  Later,  when  I  talked  of  taking  a 
journey  through  Switzerland  over  the  old  roads 


220  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

and  haunts,  a  constraint  fell  upon  him,  and  a  look 
of  bitterness  crept  into  his  eyes. 

"  But  you  must  come  too,"  I  cried.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "  Take  to-morrow  to  think  it  over," 
I  concluded  with  a  laugh.  Pierre  grew  very  pale, 
his  lips  moved  nervously. 

"My  position  has  changed,  dear  fellow,"  he 
said,  "  sadly  changed  since  we  parted."  Again 
that  weary  look,  again  that  bitter  smile. 

"  In  what  way  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Every  way,"  he  answered.  Little  by  little  I 
drew  his  story  from  him.  Word  by  word  he  told 
me  everything.  His  parents  had  died  and  left 
him  struggling,  disappointed,  penniless.  He  was 
alone  in  the  world.  Still  working  with  his  brush, 
but  hoping  little  now.  I  looked  at  him  with  pity 
in  my  gaze,  with  love  in  my  heart. 

That  night  I  said  nothing,  but  the  following  day 
I  proposed  to  Pierre  that  we  should  spend  the 
summer  together.  I  feared  for  his  pride ;  but 
he  accepted  my  offer,  and  soon  our  plans  were 
made. 

We  arranged  to  go  to  Germany.  Pierre  pro- 
posed Homburg,  as  a  healthful  climate  and  a 
pleasant  resort.  He  seemed  anxious  I  should  see 


THE  LOST  JEWEL.  221 

the  place.  To  Homburg  we  went  ;  at  Homburg 
we  remained. 

We  met  many  people.  The  Frenchman  was 
indifferent  in  his  manner  to  every  one ;  but  all 
liked  him,  all  praised  him. 

One  evening  as  we  sat  together  on  the  terrace 
of  the  Kurhaus,  watching  the  steady  stream  of 
pedestrians  promenading  in  the  gardens,  Pierre 
drew  my  attention  to  a  young  woman  in  company 
with  an  officer.  I  had  never  seen  his  face  so 
eager,  his  expression  so  interested. 

"  She  is  beautiful,"  he  murmured. 

"  The  face  is  bright,"  I  said. 

The  next  day  Pierre  asked  me  if  I  had  met  the 
fair  stranger.  I  laughed  and  shook  my  head. 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  her  ?  "  I  asked.  The 
foreigner  shrugged  his  shoulders,  put  his  hands 
gracefully  behind  him,  and  walked  off.  But  I 
concluded  that  he  wanted  to  meet  the  beautiful 
woman,  to  talk  to  her,  to  have  her  for  his  friend. 

I  learned  she  was  an  American,  a  widow.  At 
an  early  age  she  married  a  foreigner,  for  money 
no  doubt. 

Madame  Dupont  was  entertaining,  interesting, 
they  said. 


222  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

Being  an  American,  I  soon  obtained  an  intro- 
duction to  her.  She  was  clever  and  bright ;  but 
in  her  eyes  I  saw  an  expression  of  coldness,  which 
I  did  not  like  nor  understand. 

It  pleased  me  to  tell  Pierre  of  my  introduction 
to  his  strange  beauty.  He  laughed  while  his  face 
flushed  proudly,  as  I  said  I  had  promised  Madame 
Dupont  to  introduce  him  at  the  first  opportunity. 

At  Homburg  one  meets  all  the  visitors  each 
morning,  afternoon,  and  evening.  A  strict  code 
of  etiquette  exists  there  among  the  English  and 
Germans  ;  but  with  the  Americans  and  French  it 
is  different.  They  make  friends  quickly,  easily, 
—  they  are  strangers  in  a  strange  land. 

The  next  day  I  presented  Pierre  to  Madame 
Dupont.  I  thought  she  liked  him.  Her  manner 
was  cordial,  her  greeting  interested,  as  she  spoke 
to  the  Frenchman. 

They  were  much  together  during  the  weeks 
which  followed.  I  felt  that  I  had  been  robbed  of 
my  friend.  It  was  with  a  touch  of  jealousy  I  lis- 
tened to  their  animated  conversation,  in  which 
were  many  clever  speeches,  many  bright  retorts. 
I  saw  that  Pierre  lost  something  of  his  indifferent 
manner;  of  his  bored,  imbittered  ways  when  in 


THE  LOST  JEWEL.  223 

Madame  Dupont's  presence,  when  under  the  influ- 
ence of  Madame  Dupont's  smiles. 

One  afternoon  she  asked  me  a  question.  Who 
was  Pierre  Baton  ? 

How  could  I  give  her  a  direct  answer?  how 
explain  our  friendship  ?  What  I  knew  of  him 
came  only  from  his  lips,  from  his  assertions.  Not 
until  this  moment  had  I  realized  the  greatness  of 
my  faith,  the  depth  of  my  belief  in  the  foreigner. 

I  was  most  confident  in  my  manner,  most 
earnest  in  my  voice,  as  I  praised  his  appearance, 
commended  his  character. 

In  answer  Madame  Dupont  shrugged  her 
shoulders — the  movement  meant  a  great  deal,  or. 
meant  nothing.  I  could  not  interpret  it.  I 
glanced  at  her  face  but  saw  nothing.  It  was 
impossible  to  read  the  expression  of  a  woman 
whom  I  had  known  but  a  few  short  weeks. 

I  was  glad  to  notice  that  her  manner  remained 
unchanged  towards  Pierre.  I  had  an  affection 
for  the  Frenchman  which  might  be  likened  unto 
love.  I  could  in  a  moment,  and  at  a  glance, 
detect  the  old  bored  expression  when  it  crept 
again  into  his  eyes,  the  sad,  beseeching  look 
which  had  won  my  confidence  at  Paris. 


224  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

I  began  to  make  plans  for  his  present,  his 
future.  I  began  to  map  out  his  life.  Then  I 
must  chide  my  enthusiasm,  check  my  ardor,  by 
the  questions,  is  he  grateful,  is  he  happy  ?  But 
the  queries  float  away  almost  as  soon  as  my  brain 
forms  them.  I  despise  myself  for  even  a  shadow 
of  doubt. 

Madame  Dupont  was  rich,  extravagant,  luxu- 
rious, indulgent.  I  saw  the  gulf  ever  widening, 
ever  deepening,  between  the  Frenchman  and  my- 
self. But  what  reason  had  I  for  the  surmise,  the 
conclusion,  that  Pierre  admired  the  widow  ?  None. 
No  word,  no  proof,  of  his  feelings.  But  imagina- 
tion, is  a  fast  traveller,  a  ready  planner.  Once 
started,  where  does  she  turn  back  ?  when  does  she 
stop  ? 

One  morning  as  we  three  strolled  by  the 
Springs,  we  stopped  at  Marx's,  the  jeweller.  We 
looked  through  the  glass  covering  at  the  jewelry 
in  his  stand.  The  stones  were  brilliant.  Pierre 
leaned  near  the  glass.  He  pointed  to  a  small 
ring  beside  which  lay  a  dazzling  emerald. 

"The  emerald  you  mean?"  I  asked,  following 
the  direction  of  his  eyes. 

"  No,  no,"   he  replied ;  "  I   want  to  call   your 


THE  LOST  JEWEL.  22$ 

attention  to  that  curious  setting  in  the  small 
diamond  ring."  I  soon  turned  away,  surprised  at 
the  man's  modest  taste.  I  much  preferred  the 
green  stone,  its  value  was  greater.  Then  I 
remembered  Pierre's  poverty.  How  easy  to 
misjudge,  to  misunderstand  others,  I  thought ! 
Each  day,  each  hour,  brings  its  lessons,  its  knowl- 
edge, its  experience,  to  us.  I  became  more  chari- 
table as  I  compared  my  easy  life  with  the 
struggles  and  disappointments  of  my  compan- 
ion's. 

Madame  Dupont  had  many  friends.  She  had 
passed  previous  summers  at  Homburg,  a  well- 
known  visitor  at  the  Springs. 

Once  I  proposed  to  the  Frenchman  that  we 
should  journey  on  to  other  places.  I  began  to 
weary  of  the  monotony,  and  long  for  change. 
But  Pierre  was  so  urgent  in  his  protestations  that 
I  abandoned  the  idea.  How  reticent,  how  proud, 
that  Frenchman  was  ! 

One  day  Madame  Dupont  expressed  a  desire  to 
purchase  the  emerald.  I  offered  to  accompany 
her  to  Marx's  stand.  As  Pierre  drew  back  she 
begged  him  to  join  us  :  it  was  so  embarrassing  to 
buy  jewels  alone,  she  said. 


226  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

Again  we  gazed  at  the  precious  stones,  again 
Pierre's  eyes  wandered  to  the  small  diamond. 
Marx  handed  Madame  Dupont  the  emerald.  In 
examining  it  more  closely  I  saw  that  it  was  a 
wonderfully  clear  and  well-cut  stone.  I  urged  the 
widow  in  her  choice  of  it. 

"By  all  means  take  that  one,"  I  said.  Before 
answering  she  handed  it  to  the  Frenchman.  He 
took  it  lightly  between  his  fingers,  expressing  his 
preference  for  the  diamond.  Madame  Dupont 
hesitated  just  an  instant,  then  took  back  the  green 
jewel,  saying,  — • 

"This  must  be  mine."  At  the  moment  her 
gloved  fingers  slipped  and  the  ring  fell  from  her 
hands.  I  thought  I  saw  the  stone  glisten  in  the 
brown  dust  at  her  feet.  I  stooped  to  restore  it  to 
her;  at  the  same  instant  Pierre  bent  down,  then 
looking  up  hurriedly,  he  said,  — 

"  The  stone  has  disappeared  !  " 

For  a  moment  the  color  left  the  widow's  face. 
With  an  effort  she  controlled  herself. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  she  said.  "  It  must  be  on 
the  ground,  for  it  glided  from  my  fingers."  In 
vain  we  looked,  in  vain  we  talked,  in  vain  we 
wondered  —  the  emerald  ring  was  gone. 


THE  LOST  JEWEL.  227 

Madame  Dupont  spoke  a  minute  with  Marx. 
I  drew  aside  and  waited  for  her.  The  man 
shrugged,  gesticulated,  said  something  in  an 
undertone  about  Monsieur,  locked  up  his  case 
again,  then  quickly  summoned  his  colleagues  to 
assist  him  in  his  frantic  search  for  the  lost  jewel. 

Pierre  was  paler  than  usual,  I  thought.  He 
stood  beside  me,  the  bored  expression  in  his  eyes, 
the  bitterness  about  his  smile. 

We  were  all  embarrassed.  The  strain  of  effort 
fell  upon  us  and  mingled  in  our  conversation. 
We  walked  in  almost  solemn  silence  to  the  hotel. 

That  evening  at  dinner  I  ate  but  little.  I  was 
thinking,  puzzling,  wondering,  about  the  emerald 
ring.  Several  times  my  glance  rested  upon  the 
pale  face  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table.  Pierre 
seemed  nervous.  He  talked  eagerly  of  an  expedi- 
tion he  had  promised  to  join  the  following  day. 
I  never  saw  him  so  excited. 

Madame  Dupont  was  not  on  the  terrace  that 
evening.  We  looked  for  her,  but  were  destined  to 
a  fruitless  search.  I  thought  I  understood  her 
absence. 

Night  came.  I  went  to  sleep,  a  frown  on  my 
brow,  a  sigh  on  my  lips.  The  next  morning  when 


228  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

the  bright  sun  shone  in  my  window,  its  splen- 
dor dispelled  my  gloom  and  doubts.  My  fears 
sank  into  an  imaginary  nightmare  and  were 
gone. 

Pierre  had  left  the  hotel  early  to  join  his  party 
on  their  expedition. 

I  walked  down  to  the  Springs  alone.  As  I 
came  in  sight  of  the  jeweller's  stand,  I  saw 
Madame  Dupont  in  conversation  with  Marx. 
The  man  seemed  excited  in  his  manner;  on  seeing 
me  the  conversation  ceased,  and  Madame  Dupont 
walked  on.  I  quickly  joined  her.  She  instantly 
inquired  for  my  companion.  I  said  that  he  had 
gone. 

"Gone  away  ?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Pray  do  not  look  so  alarmed,  Madame,"  said  I. 
"Pierre  returns  this  evening." 

She  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  but  exclaimed  with 
earnest  feeling,  — 

"  How  I  wish  I  had  never  met  him  ! " 

"  How  much  more  sincerely,"  I  replied,  "  I 
wish  I  had  never  presented  him  to  you  !  " 

Later  as  we  came  in  view  of  the  town  I  inquired 
what  the  owner  of  the  jewel  had  said. 

"  He  says  much,"  replied  the  widow. 


THE  LOST  JEWEL.  229 

"Has  he  discovered  no  trace  of  his  stone?"  I 
asked. 

"  None." 

"What  are  his  conclusions  ?  "  I  persisted. 

Madame  Dupont  placed  her  finger  on  her  lips, 
motioning  me  to  silence. 

"Hush !  I  pray  you  do  not  speak  so  loud." 

"But  we  must  speak  openly  of  the  matter,"  I 
answered,  laughing  at  her  serious  face. 

"  Hush  !  "  she  repeated. 

"  He  accuses  one  of  us,"  I  said  ;  "which  is  it  ? " 
Madame  Dupont  bit  her  lips. 

"  How  can  we  blame  these  foreigners  ? "  she 
said.  "  They  are  all  suspicious,  all  distrustful ;  it 
is  part  of  their  trade  to  which  they  owe  their 
existence."  I  was  silent.  I  was  looking  intently 
at  the  fair  young  face  trying  in  vain  to  read  the 
woman's  thoughts.  She  turned  from  me  with  a 
bright  laugh. 

"  Come,"  she  said. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  I  asked,  seeing  she 
took  the  street  leading  to  the  shops. 

"I  am  going  to  make  a  purchase." 

"  In  spite  of  the  misfortune  of  yesterday  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  superstitious.     To-day  I  want  to  buy 


230  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

a  parasol ;  it  cannot  disappear  so  easily."  She 
looked  up  at  me,  laughing. 

"You  carried  a  very  pretty  one  with  you  yes- 
terday. I  noticed  it  as  you  stood  at  the  stand." 

"  But  my  maid  took  it  from  me,  and  this  morn- 
ing, when  I  looked  for  it,  she  said  it  was  packed 
away  in  the  trunk,  being  too  shabby  for  Madame 
to  use." 

We  soon  selected  a  good  shop,  and  going  in  I 
assisted  Madame  Dupont  in  her  choice.  This 
business  over  we  strolled  toward  the  gardens. 
We  were  both  unusually  quiet,  unusually  silent, 
that  morning.  Was  it  to  be  wondered  at  ? 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  again  to  the  jeweller's. 
I  wanted  to  hear  the  owner's  opinion  about  the 
disappearance  of  the  ring.  I  wondered  what  steps 
he  had  taken  in  the  matter. 

He  received  me  politely,  but  made  no  offer  to 
open  the  case  in  my  presence.  I  hardly  blamed 
him  for  his  caution. 

Then  I  spoke  about  the  lost  jewel. 

"  I  am  convinced  who  has  the  stone,"  said  the 
man. 

"Why?"  Tasked. 

"  Why  !      You   ask  me  why !      Because   I   am 


THE  LOST  JEWEL.  231 

quite  sure  that  he  picked  it  up  from  the  ground." 
My  heart  jumped,  my  throat  parched. 

"  It  is  false,"  I  cried.  The  man  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"She  paid  the  money,"  he  continued;  "it  is 
her  loss,  not  mine.  Monsieur  would  not  have 
escaped  so  easily  had  the  affair  remained  in  my 
hands." 

I  walked  on,  mortified  and  crushed  at  the  man's 
words.  Pierre  suspected  !  Pierre  a  thief !  The 
accusation  cut  me  deep,  it  rang  in  my  ears,  it 
echoed  in  my  heart.  I  began  to  blame  myself  for 
many  things.  Why  had  I  trusted  him  ?  Why 
had  I  befriended  him  ?  Why  had  I  introduced 
him  to  Madame  Dupont  ?  His  handsome  face 
appeared  to  me  in  hideous  shapes,  repellent  forms. 
This  man,  the  sharer  of  my  wealth,  the  recipient 
of  my  kindness  ?  Impossible  !  What  knew  I  of 
his  people,  what  of  his  character  ?  Nothing.  My 
face  burned  and  blushed  as  I  thought  of  the  sum 
Madame  Dupont  had  paid  to  spare  my  feelings 
and  shield  my  friend.  How  noble  she  was  ! 

When  Pierre  returned  that  evening  he  com- 
plained of  being  tired  and  hurried  to  bed  and  to 
sleep. 


232  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

While  in  the  darkness  of  night  I  lay  awake 
"and  wondering,  question  after  question  presented 
their  problems  to  me.  Doubt  after  doubt 
pierced  my  heart.  I  could  not  forget  the  phan- 
tom. I  could  not  dispel  the  ghost.  Pierre  an 
impostor !  Pierre  in  the  wrong !  I  fell  into  a 
troubled,  restless  sleep.  I  dreamed  of  misery 
and  woe. 

The  next  day  my  manner  must  have  impressed 
the  foreigner,  as  indeed  I  intended  it  should,  for 
he  inquired  if  I  were  ill  or  troubled.  I  gave  him 
no  definite  answer. 

I  wondered  how  Madame  Dupont  would  treat 
him.  But  her  manner  did  not  change. 

I  was  much  surprised  when  she  told  me  of  her 
intended  departure  the  next  day. 

She  kept  to  her  plan.  I  went  and  saw  the  last 
glimpse  of  her  as  she  boarded  the  Frankfort  train. 
She  told  me  to  say  good-by  to  the  Frenchman  for 
her. 

When  I  delivered  the  message  to  Pierre  his 
face  darkened,  his  lips  trembled.  The  strange 
sadness  was  again  in  his  eyes. 

"Madame  Dupont  might  have  given  the  mes- 
sage in  person  to  me,-'  he  said  hotly. 


THE  LOST  JEWEL.  233 

"  She  haa  no  time  to  look  for  you,"  I  replied, 
remembering  with  pain  her  generosity. 

"  If  I  had  been  rich,  if  I  had  been  famous,  then 
she  would  have  made  time,  plenty  of  time."  He 
compressed  his  lips,  and  his  face  was  angry. 

"  It  is  quite  useless  to  excite  yourself.  You  are 
not  in  a  position  to  find  fault  with  any  one,"  I  said. 
He  turned  quickly  round. 

"  I  fail  to  understand  you."  He  rose  and  stood 
before  me.  His  face  was  ashen  pale  in  its  haughty 
pride. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  I  replied. 

"  Madame  Dupont  should  have  off ere^  me  some 
words  of  good-by,"  repeated  the  foreigner,  his 
voice  shaking  with  emotion. 

"I  do  not  consider  that  she  was  under  any 
obligation  to  do  so.  Quite  the  contrary." 

"  Sir,"  said  Pierre,  "  I  must  have  an  explana- 
tion, an  understanding."  I  shrugged  my  shoul- 
ders. "  Give  it  me  !  "  he  cried. 

i 

"  I  can  give  you  none,"  I  said. 
"  You  allude  to  my  position  ;  what  is  the  mean- 
ing in  your  words  ? " 
I  remained  silent. 
"  Speak,"  cried  Pierre. 


234  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

"  I  allude  to  the  ring." 

"  The  ring  !  "  exclaimed  the  foreigner ;  "  the 
ring !  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  cannot  mean  —  you  are  not  so  cruel  —  so 
false  —  to  mean  I  took  it  ? "  His  voice  was  hoarse, 
his  face  white  with  anger. 

"I  have  not  said  you  took  it,"  I  replied. 

"  You  have  thought,  you  have  implied  it.  Bet- 
ter accuse  me  openly,  honestly.  It  is  over 
between  us  now :  the  interest,  the  affection,  the 
love,  forever  vanished,  forever  gone.  Your  trust 
once  shaken,  my  happiness  at  an  end ! "  He 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands  ;  a  sob  broke  from 
him.  "Good-by,  good-by  to  it  forever." 

"Pierre,"  I  said,  "calm  yourself.  Talk  this 
matter  over  with  me.  I  am  ready  to  help  you ; 
anxious  to  be  your  friend.  I  can  forgive  you." 

"  Forgive  me  !  "  he  cried.  "  You  can  forgive 
me  !  What  have  you  to  forgive  ?  —  nothing  !  "  He 
laughed  as  he  spoke. 

"  It  is  best  to  believe  in  me,  Pierre.  I  alone 
can  help  you,  spare  you." 

He  clinched  his  fists  as  they  hung  at  his  sides. 

"I  want  no  help  from  you,"  he  cried.     "I  am 


THE  LOST  JE IV EL.  235 

innocent ;  I  am  proud ;  I  am  wronged.  I  go 
away  this  hour  —  far  away  where  you  shall  never 
see  me,  never  hear  my  voice  again.  Pierre  Baton 
is  desolate." 

I  gazed  at  him.  I  pitied  him.  The  old  love 
welled  up  in  my  heart,  then  was  gone  again. 

"  If  you  leave  Homburg  to-night,  you  do  a  fool- 
ish thing  !  "  I  thought  I  could  influence  him,  but 
he  seemed  removed  from  my  words. 

"  I  go  now  —  now,"  he  cried.  "I  go  away  this 
very  hour." 

I  rose  and  went  near  him.  I  put  my  hand  upon 
his  arm,  but  he  shrank  from  my  touch  as  though 
he  scorned  it. 

"  I  want  nothing  from  you,"  he  exclaimed. 
Then  he  turned  hastily  ;  with  one  look  of  reproach 
and  anger  in  his  eyes  he  left  me. 

The  hour  had  not  expired  when  he  had  gone,  — 
gone  from  me,  from  his  friends,  from  Homburg 
forever. 

I  was  sad  and  weary  that  night  as  I  sat  alone  on 
the  terrace  and  saw  the  moving  throng  pass  by. 
There  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  do  in  Homburg, 
nothing. 

So  I,  too,  packed  my  things  and  went  away. 


236  THE  LOST  JEWEL. 

Many  times  I  thought  of  Madame  Dupont.  I 
thought  of  the  handsome  foreigner,  and  what  he 
had  done. 

But  from  this  unfortunate  circumstance,  together 
with  its  unfortunate  ending,  I  learned  two  lessons. 
May  all  who  read  this  mark  them  :  Do  not  make 
friends  hastily ;  do  not  make  friends  carelessly ; 
better  to  make  no  friends  at  all.  But,  once  own- 
ing a  friend,  trust  him  always  ;  believe  him  to  the 
end.  This  is  my  advice  to  you. 

A  question  has  since  arisen  in  my  mind ;  it 
disturbs  my  peace,  it  annoys  my  rest.  Which  of 
those  four  persons  present  at  the  loss  knew  what 
became  of  the  emerald  ring?  —  the  jeweller, 
Madame  Dupont,  Pierre  Baton,  myself  even, 
might  have  it,  you  know.  A  reputation  depends 
upon  the  answer.  Pray  tell  me  how  the  answer 
can  be  found  ? 


Years  after  I  discovered  it.  Let  me  now  add  it 
to  these  pages. 

One  day  I  met  Madame  Dupont  in  Paris.  Our 
conversation  fell  into  rehearsing  the  past,  as  con- 
versations often  do.  I  spoke  of  the  ring.  She 


THE  LOST  JEWEL.  237 

spoke  of  the  foreigner.  Then  the  widow  turned 
and  looked  at  me. 

"  You  did  not  get  my  note  in  which  I  explained 
the  incident  ?"  she  exclaimed. 

I  shook  my  head.  "  But  pray  tell  me,  Madame, 
which  of  us  may  the  guilty  one  be  ? " 

"We  are  all  innocent,"  laughed  the  widow. 
"The  ring  fell  into  my  parasol  as  I  held  it  closed 
before  me.  The  maid  unpacked  it  when  we 
reached  home,  and  in  its  silken  folds  lay  the 
emerald  ring." 

"  If  only  I  had  known  this  in  time,"  I  cried, 
"  then  Pierre  might  have  been  spared  everything  !  " 

"  Pierre  was  accused  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said ;  "  Pierre  suffered  the  pain  of 
accusation." 

"  Poor  fellow !  and  would  it  be  too  late  to  tell 
him  now  ? " 

"Too  late.  Through  ten  long  years  have  I 
watched  for  his  tidings,  but  he  has  successfully 
hidden  himself  from  the  world  and  from  me." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  murmured  Madame  Dupont, 
thinking  of  his  admiration  for  her. 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  I  repeated,  thinking  of  how  I 
had  wronged  him. 


A  STRANGE  CHOICE. 


A  STRANGE  CHOICE. 


RICHARD  LOWEL  first  met  Ruth  Ward  in  Paris. 
He  was  many  years  her  senior.  She  was  young, 
gay,  enthusiastic,  and  clever.  The  older  man  was 
attracted  by  her  beauty,  her  fascinations,  her  wit. 
She  amused  him  with  her  bright  speeches,  pleased 
him  with  her  quick  retorts.  The  wedding  took 
place  in  the  Avenue  de  1'Alma. 

The  years  went  by  swiftly  for  the  newly  married 
pair. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lowel  made  their  home  in  Amer- 
ica. Mabel  Ward,  Ruth's  sister,  lived  with  them. 

The  ninth  year  of  their  marriage  finds  them  at 
their  summer  home  by  the  sea,  where  Ruth  loved 
the  warm  days,  the  never-ending  blueness  of  the 
skies. 

Mrs.  Lowel  had  in  no  wise  renounced  her  social 
life.  She  went  to  luncheons,  dinners,  theatres, 
241 


242  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

and  balls,  sometimes  accompanied  by  her  husband, 
sometimes  alone. 

Ruth  had  always  managed  all  things  well.  She 
kept  her  house  delightfully,  chose  her  friends 
wisely,  entertained  her  husband  with  great  skill. 
Richard's  eyes  were  very  keen,  they  seemed  to 
penetrate  through  every  motive,  every  action. 
He  judged  fairly,  he  formed  his  opinions  slowly. 
His  wife  was  less  accurate  and  always  quick  ;  it  is 
woman's  nature  to  be  so.  With  her  husband  she 
had  much  influence.  She  fascinated  him  just  as 
she  did  her  sister,  her  friends,  her  child,  her 
dependants.  The  boy  was  beautiful.  Every  one 
spoke  of  his  curling  hair,  his  dark  eyes,  his  rich 
coloring.  At  seven  years  of  age  he  was  already 
growing  tall.  His  father  marked  the  change 
from  hour  to  hour.  Philip  was  his  idol.  Ruth 
often  said  she  could  not  understand  jealousy  in 
any  form,  but  if  her  husband  caused  her  unhappi- 
ness,  she  declared  it  would  be  through  his  love  for 
her  child.  The  boy  cared  for  his  father.  He 
would  go  to  him  with  every  thought.  Richard 
always  seemed  to  understand.  Ruth  would  often 
wonder  at  the  shyness  of  her  boy.  In  the  last 
year  he  had  changed  greatly.  Mr.  Lowel  had 


A    STRAA'GE   CHOICE.  243 

maintained  that  school  training  was  the  proper 
thing  for  boys.  In  vain  Ruth  argued,  in  vain 
Ruth  pleaded  that  she  might  keep  the  child,  but 
her  boy  was  sent  to  school  to  lose  all  baby  traits, 
to  learn  all  boyish  ways.  It  was  during  his  first 
vacation  the  mother  saw  the  change. 

Meanwhile  Mabel  received  letters  from  her 
aunt  in  Paris  begging  her  to  go  abroad.  She 
could  not  refuse  the  invitation.  The  sisters 
parted  with  deep  regrets  and  few  words.  Richard 
never  alluded  to  the  subject ;  his  wife  could  not 
beg  for  sympathy  ;  she  was  too  proud  for  that. 

Now,  without  her  sister,  without  her  child,  the 
wife's  thoughts  dwelt  constantly  with  her  husband, 
too  constantly  perhaps.  She  thought  him  cold, 
indifferent.  She  detected  a  bored  expression  in 
his  eyes,  a  disinterestedness  in  his  actions.  These 
things  troubled  her. 

There  were  people  who  envied  the  young  wife. 
Her  life  was  so  full,  her  days  so  occupied.  What 
need  had  she  for  hospitals,  meetings,  interests, 
charities  ?  Her  home  was  charming,  her  position 
good,  her  husband  kind,  her  child  beautiful ; 
every  wish  gratified,  every  hope  granted,  every 
idea  fulfilled  —  nothing  left  for  her  to  need. 


244  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

She  went  to  balls  to  be  surrounded ;  to  parties  to 
dance  every  waltz ;  to  drive  to  be  admired.  In 
attending  church  she  was  commended ;  in  giv- 
ing to  the  needy,  praised.  There  were  other 
women  who  longed  to  be  surrounded,  to  dance 
every  waltz,  to  be  admired ;  women,  who  went 
to  church,  who  gave  to  the  poor,  but  the  world  did 
not  rock  them  in  its  cradle,  did  not  sing  psalms  in 
their  praise.  For  of  these  the  world  had  not 
chosen;  for  their  disappointment  the  world  did 
not  care. 

But  there  are  two  sides  to  every  argument, 
there  are  two  lawyers  to  every  case.  There 
are  two  meanings  to  every  story,  there  are  two 
parts  to  every  life.  There  are  contrasting  evi- 
dences in  every  discussion,  there  are  conflicting 
thoughts  in  every  mind.  There  are  different 
characteristics  in  every  nature,  there  are  many 
longings  in  every  heart.  There  are  heights  un- 
sealed in  every  ambition,  there  are  positions 
unattained  in  every  life.  Who  can  deny  it  ?  So 
it  was  with  the  young  wife,  the  beautiful  woman 
whom  all  envied,  all  praised.  She  had  her  argu- 
ment. She  had  the  meaning  to  her  story.  She 
had  the  conflicting  thoughts  in  her  mind.  She 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  245 

had  different  characteristics  in  her  nature. 
She  had  the  longings  in  her  heart.  Crush  them, 
trample  them,  hush  them  as  she  would,  they  still 
lived,  existed.  The  ambition  to  accomplish  some- 
thing,—  the  height  to  surmount,  the  position  to 
occupy  in  the  success  of  possession  were  glory, 
light,  happiness,  satisfaction,  life  to  the  young 
woman.  The  sameness  of  society  bored  her,  the 
monotony  of  praise  maddened  her.  She  wanted 
something  greater.  Again  and  again  she  took  up 
her  pen  to  portray  these  hopes,  but  in  her  words 
there  was  no  expression,  in  her  lines  no  poetry. 
She  could  not  write,  she  could  not  sing,  she  could 
not  paint,  but  why  not  act  ?  Like  a  whisper  of 
temptation  the  thought  came  to  her,  like  a  breath 
•of  a  secret  the  idea  crept  into  her  mind  and  sank 
into  the  deep  recesses  of  her  heart  to  urge  her 
on  to  movement,  to  decision,  to  action.  In  her 
younger  days  she  had  managed  plays,  she  had 
been  enthusiastic,  she  had  studied,  she  had  acted. 
Why  not  take  up  this  line  of  interest,  this  occupa- 
tion now  ?  There  were  plays  given  every  year  for 
charities  in  the  theatres ;  actresses  were  needed, 
talent  sought.  Like  an  inspiration  of  strong 
ideas,  hopes,  ambitions,  the  desire  to  develop  her 


246  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

genius,  to  be  admired  in  this  role,  seized  the 
woman.  To  her  husband  must  she  speak  not  a 
word,  suggest  not  a  thought.  He  must  be  aston- 
ished, amused,  surprised.  Before  the  footlights 
he  must  watch  his  wife,  he  must  worship  her 
beauty,  her  power,  her  actions.  Impressed  with 
this  one  idea,  engrossed  with  this  plan,  Ruth 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  president  of  the  Dramatic 
Club.  Would  they  allow  her  to  appear  at  their 
next  performance  ?  might  she  have  a  leading  part  ? 
Among  the  older  members  were  those  who  knew 
of  her  ability,  those  who  remembered  her  good 
acting.  Mrs.  Lowel's  services  were  accepted  by 
the  Club. 

Yet  so  strange  is  human  nature,  so  conflicting 
its  desires,  so  changing  its  decisions,  so  fearful  its 
hopes,  no  sooner  had  the  wife  demanded  the  re- 
quest, begun  the  arrangements,  accepted  the  part, 
than  her  enthusiasm  vanished,  her  anticipation 
cooled,  her  courage  flickered. 

Then  again  came  the  desire  rushing  over  her 
soul  to  surprise  Richard,  to  conquer  his  spirit,  to 
overcome  his  indifference.  She  had  believed  him 
changed  of  late  —  his  enthusiasm,  his  affection,  his 
admiration.  Now  she  would  awaken  his  percep- 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  247 

tion,  his  praise,  his  pleasure  in  her  unlooked-for  suc- 
cess, in  her  hidden  talent.  She  would  teach  him 
the  lesson  of  her  genius,  she  would  show  him  the 
strength  of  her  power.  Thus  the  wife  planned 
her  triumph,  thus  the  woman  weaved  her  scheme. 
Richard  Lowel  suspected  nothing.  He  lived 
calmly,  quietly,  seriously  through  his  days.  He 
asked  no  questions,  he  imagined  no  secrets,  he  saw 
no  plots.  Ruth  was  happy.  Philip  was  well.  He 
wished  for  nothing.  He  longed  for  naught.  His 
home  was  pleasant,  his  life  peaceful.  But  with 
the  ambitious  nature  of  the  woman  how  different ! 
Her  mind  had  been  ever  eager,  her  spirit  restive, 
her  brain  active.  An  occupation,  an  aim,  an 
interest,  she  had  ever  craved.  Now  she  dreamed 
sweet  dreams  of  reward.  Life  was  beginning 
anew ;  possibilities  hovered  near  her  to  sweeten 
the  dryness  of  her  study,  to  cheer  the  monotony 
of  her  work.  Study  became  a  pleasure,  applica- 
tion a  delight.  For  hours  she  could  bend  over  her 
book  with  no  fatigue  whatever,  but  refreshment  to 
her  mind.  Her  spirit  grew  more  content,  as  it 
absorbed  the  knowledge  so  soothing  to  the  brain 
which  strengthened  in  its  capacity,  its  understand- 
ing, its  depth.  Her  heart  began  to  grow  and  live 
anew.' 


248  A   STRANGE  CHOICE. 

The  actress  developed  as  the  woman  realized 
the  fulness  of  the  art.  In  every  movement  she 
put  grace,  in  every  sentence  melody,  in  every 
glance  meaning.  Ruth  Lowel  forgot  herself  in 
the  fascination  of  her  art.  In  the  character  so 
difficult  to  comprehend  she  imagined  nobleness, 
goodness,  greatness.  It  seemed  she  had  experi- 
enced those  very  actions,  witnessed  those  very 
scenes,  loved  those  very  memories.  In  the  play 
she  saw  great  things,  she  portrayed  great  circum- 
stances, she  imagined  great  actions.  In  its  execu- 
tion she  must  please,  fascinate,  satisfy.  But  even 
now,  in  the  midst  of  her  acting,  she  saw  Richard's 
face,  in  the  height  of  her  ambition  she  watched 
Richard's  figure,  in  the  noise  of  her  praise  she 
heard  Richard's  voice,  irrthe  repose  of  her  fatigue 
she  felt  Richard's  comfort,  in  the  satisfaction  of 
her  success  she  dreamed  of  Richard's  happiness ; 
for  his  praise  only  did  she  work,  strive  ;  for  his 
glory  would  she  win.  His  pleasure  was  the 
greatest  desire  in  her  acting,  his  acknowledgment 
the  greatest  aim  of  her  genius.  Yet  in  her  eyes 
did  he  not  seem  cold,  indifferent,  difficult  ?  But 
she  knew  how  to  change  him,  how  to  turn  the 
current  of  his  mind,  his  heart.  Loudly  would  he 


A    STRAA'GE  CHOICE.  249 

praise  the  woman  he  had  chosen  ;  dearly  would 
he  prize  her  talent  and  her  art.  So  in  the  summer 
days  Ruth  became  absorbed.  Diligently  she 
worked,  conscientiously  she  studied  every  line, 
every  word. 

Tickets  had  been  sold  for  the  play  at  a  high 
figure.  There  would  be  eager  eyes  to  see  her  act. 

Since  her  marriage  she  had  not  appeared  upon 
the  stage.  Richard  had  never  known  how  she 
could  act.  Now  the  days  passed  quickly  in  the 
occupation, — the  study  of  the  play. 

It  was  earlier  than  usual  one  evening  when 
Richard  started  for  his  club.  It  was  his  custom 
to  leave  his  wife  —  a  habit  natural  to  many  men. 
Mrs.  Lowel  never  seemed  indignant,  surprised,  nor 
disappointed  when  he  rose,  and  lighting  his  cigar, 
gave  the  signal  it  was  time  to  leave.  But  now 
her  face  flushed,  her  eyes  gleamed  when  the  door 
closed  behind  the  husband  to  leave  the  wife  alone. 
She  rushed  to  get  her  book,  and  soon  the  actress 
was  so  absorbed  as  not  to  hear  the  key  plainly 
turning  in  the  lock.  Silent  she  sat,  her  head 
buried  in  her  hands,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes 
brilliant,  repeating  over  the  lines  of  the  play. 
The  task  was  so  interesting,  so  absorbing,  that 


250  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

Ruth  did  not  see  her  husband  at  her  side.  He 
was  looking  intently  at  her,  a  curious  expression 
in  his  eyes.  Impatiently  he  watched  her  as  she 
thrust  her  ringers  through  her  curling,  dark  hair. 
How  her  hands  sparkled  with  the  diamonds  he 
had  given  her !  How  the  bands  of  gold  gleamed 
yellow  in  her  hair ! 

"What  occupies  you  so  pleasantly,  Ruth?"  he 
asked. 

She  started  at  his  presence;  an  expression  of 
fear  shot  from  her  eyes,  her  face  paled. 

"  Studying,"  she  said,  controlling  her  emotion 
and  keeping  her  head  bent  low 

"  Studying !     For  what  ? " 

"  Amusement.  But  pray  what  brings  you 
back?" 

"  I  came  to  find  my  purse.  I  believe  I  left  it 
up-stairs." 

"  Shall  I  get  it  for  you  ? "  asked  she,  anxious 
to  escape  his  questions. 

"  No,  no  ;  the  purse  can  wait.  Rather  would  I 
have  you  tell  me  what  this  studying  means." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Ruth. 

"  You  must,"  said  Richard,  laughing. 

"No." 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  251 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  but  let  me  see  your  book." 

"  No,"  cried  Ruth,  raising  her  dark  eyes,  in 
which  Richard  saw  defiance. 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  he  repeated,  putting  out  his 
hand  to  take  the  play-book  from  his  wife. 

"  No,  no."  She  covered  the  pages  with  her 
elbow.  "You  cannot  see  what  I  am  doing." 

"  Yes,  I  shall,"  said  Richard,  growing  serious. 

"What  right  have  you?"  exclaimed  the  wife. 

"  Every  right,"  said  Lowel,  pushing  away  her 
arm  and  releasing  the  book. 

"You  have  torn  the  leaves." 

"Son  Marriage!"  exclaimed  Lowel.  "What 
are  you  doing  with  this  play  ?  " 

"Studying  my  lines,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Your  lines  !  " 

"  Yes.  I  have  promised  to  take  the  heroine's 
part  at  the  theatre  next  week." 

"  You  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Lowel, 
his  brows  contracting.  "  The  part  is  not  a  pleas- 
ant one,  and  my  wife  shall  not  appear  upon  the 
stage  in  this  character." 

"  Richard,"  cried  Ruth,  her  dark  eyes  growing 
dim,  "  I  have  promised.  I  cannot  break  my 
word." 


252  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

« 

"  You  should  not  have  given  your  word  without 
my  consent." 

"There  is  no  time  to  discuss  that." 

"  You  know  how  I  hate  deceit." 

"  I  have  not  deceived  you,"  said  the  wife,  her 
voice  trembling.  "  I  did  not  suppose  that  you  would 
care.  In  my  younger  days  I  have  acted  this  play 
and  succeeded  in  the  part.  I  have  been  so  inter- 
ested in  my  lines,  and  I  love  so  to  study  !  Please, 
please  do  not  forbid  me."  Richard  Lowel  made  a 
step  nearer  his  wife,  and  laying  his  hand  on  hers, 
said  gravely,  — 

"  What  you  have  done  in  the  past  you  shall  not 
do  in  the  present." 

"Why?"  asked  Ruth. 

"  Because,  as  my  wife,  you  shall  do  only  those 
things  of  which  I  approve.  Acting  is  a  foolish 
pastime,  which  leads  to  ideas  in  our  society  women 
of  to-day." 

"  But  this  is  in  a  good  cause  and  can  do  no 
harm  to  me  ;  the  occupation  is  a  gain." 

"  You  should  not  crave  for  work  of  this  kind. 
You  have  many  interests  to  fill  and  claim  your 
time." 

"  Not  so  many  as  you  think,  now  that  Philip  is 
away." 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  253 

"  True,  your  life  has  changed  ;  but  you  must 
learn  to  lead  it,  Ruth,  as  best  you  can."  With 
these  words  Lowel  put  his  hand  upon  her  arm. 

"  It  helps  my  life  to  occupy  my  time." 

"  You  can  make  a  better  use  of  your  hours. 
I  should  hate  to  see  my  wife  appear  upon  the 
stage." 

"  For  one  night  ?  " 

"For  one  moment." 

"But  please  allow  me  just  this  once  to  fill  the 
part.  My  friends  will  laugh  and  jeer  when  I 
refuse  to  act." 

"Then  they  are  not  your  friends,"  said  Richard. 

"  But,  as  your  wife,  do  you  wish  to  make  me 
ridiculous  ? " 

"  Failure  would  be  far  more  ridiculous  to  your 
pride." 

"  Failure  !  I  shall  not  fail !  I  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing." 

"  It  is  possible,"  said  Lowel  sharply. 

"  You  mistake  my  abilities  ;  I  can  act.  In  the 
days  gone  by  I  never  failed." 

"  Ruth."  And  Richard's  fingers  tightened  their 
hold  upon  her  arm.  "  Ruth,  I  ask  you  to  give  up 
your  part." 


254  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

"I  shall  not,"  replied  Ruth,  a  sudden  defiance 
taking  possession  of  her.  "This  time  I  cannot 
obey."  There  were  angry  tears  in  her  eyes. 
Deeply  had  Lowel  wounded  her  vanity,  her  pride. 
But  he  did  not  notice  it ;  his  own  thoughts  filled 
his  mind.  Richard  Lowel  remained  at  home  that 
evening.  For  hours  he  sat  reading ;  he  always 
chose  the  most  instructive  books.  Ruth  was  too 
much  disturbed  by  the  words  which  had  been  said 
to  study  now ;  she  could  not  concentrate  her 
thoughts.  Her  husband's  warning  rang  loudly 
in  her  ears.  Why  had  he  told  her  she  would 
fail  ?  Why  had  he  interfered  with  her  work  ? 
Why  had  he  shaken  her  confidence  ?  But  she 
must,  she  would  succeed  at  any  cost.  She  must 
study,  prove  to  him  her  talent  and  her  art. 

The  next  day  the  child  was  coming  home  from 
school.  It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon  on  which  the 
boy  returned  to  his  mother.  He  had  grown.  He 
had  lost  his  baby  face,  his  flowing  curls.  Richard 
went  to  meet  him  at  the  train.  Ruth  waited  in  the 
house,  with  longing  heart,  to  welcome  her  dear 
son.  As  she  heard  the  carriage  wheels,  she  flew 
down  the  steps  to  clasp  the  little  fellow  in  her 
outstretched  arms.  Was  there  a  shade  of  dis- 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  255 

appointment  in  the  mother's  voice  as  she  asked 
him  how  he  was,  kissed  him  fondly,  told  him  he 
had  grown  ?  Perhaps  she  had  not  realized  the 
change.  The  boy  receives  affection  coldly  ;  the 
child  returns  it.  Philip  was  a  lad  who  never 
expressed  his  sorrow  nor  his  joy — shy,  reserved 
in  his  manners,  in  his  heart.  Ruth  had  never 
thought  of  this,  and  she  did  not  understand. 
Richard  was  much  pleased  with  his  son.  His 
handsome  face,  his  straight  limbs,  his  short  hair, 
were  just  the  characteristics  he  admired.  Philip 
talked  easily  to  his  father,  but  seemed  confused 
when  his  mother  pressed  his  hands  and  kissed  him. 
It  was  some  time  before  Mrs.  Lowel  learned  to 
comprehend  her  son.  His  absence  had  made 
them  strangers.  But  Ruth  was  patient,  Ruth 
,was  kind.  In  the  hot  mornings  she  would  take 
Philip  down  to  the  shore,  and  never  tire  watch- 
ing him.  He  did  not  care  for  the  sand ;  he 
liked  the  water,  and  for  hours  would  sail  his  boat 
from  the  rocks.  His  father  took  him  out  and 
tried  to  teach  him  how  to  row.  The  boy  was 
almost  too  young  to  learn,  his  hands  could  hardly 
grasp  the  oars.  But  he  loved  to  sit  in  the  boat 
and  talk  about  the  tossing,  deep-blue  sea.  Ques- 


256  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

tion  after  question  would  come  from  his  lips, 
answer  after  answer  the  father  always  seemed  to 
find.  Sometimes  Ruth  joined  them  in  the  late 
afternoons.  She  loved  to  wander  on  the  cliffs 
with  her  husband  and  her  child.  But  each  day 
increased  her  occupation,  her  study,  and  brought 
nearer  the  theatricals  ;  while  the  hour  for  Philip's 
departure  was  also  close  at  hand.  She  never 
allowed  herself  to  speak  of  when  the  boy  would 
leave  them.  But  the  thought  dwelt  in  her  mind 
and  troubled  her. 

Ruth  had  put  her  heart  in  her  work.  She 
never  lost  a  moment,  never  spared  an  idle  hour  to 
rest.  Success  !  Success  !  She  prayed  that  she 
might  win.  To  surprise  Richard ;  this  was  all 
she  seemed  to  crave.  She  saw  herself  before  the 
footlights,  brilliant,  radiant,  dazzling.  He  would 
admire  her  acting ;  he  would  admit  her  talent ; 
he  would  See  that  she  was  wonderful ;  he  would 
confess  that  she  was  great.  For  such  a  triumph 
she  strained  every  effort,  every  nerve. 

Richard  thought  that  she  grew  pale,  and  even 
little  Philip  asked  her  why  she  did  not  talk. 

"  Mamma  is  very  silent,"  he  would  say.  But 
she  was  planning  all  the  time. 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  257 

Ruth  knew  that  her  triumph  could  only  last  a 
few  hours ;    but  in  those  brief  moments   of    her 
acting,  of  her  power,  she  longed  to  bring  her  hus- 
band to  her  feet.     He  was  cold,  indifferent,  proud. 
She  would  make  him  bow  his  head  and  acknowl- 
edge her  great  charms.     Then  silent  and  haughty 
would  she  be,  for  bitterness  was  creeping  into  her 
deep  soul.     No  one  noticed  her  strange  manner, 
and  who  could  read  the  workings  of   her  mind  ? 
Far   down,    out    of   sight,    the    beautiful   woman 
struggled  daily  with  her  life.     In  these  later  years 
of  her  marriage  her  list  of  friends  had  shortened 
in  spite  of  what  the  people  said.     Richard  did  not 
care  for  the  world.     Praise,  blame,  flattery,  gossip, 
were  all  one  and  the  same  to  him.     The  idle  words 
of  others  fell  but  lightly  on  his  ears ;  these  people 
he  had  never  tried  to  understand.     Gradually  his 
wife     gave     up     her    admirers,    entertainments, 
friends.     Now  she  saw  the  mistake ;    it    mocked 
and  haunted    her.     She  repented  of   these  sacri- 
fices made  for  Richard,  these  pleasures  denied  in 
his  cause,  abandoned  for  his  sake.     But  why  look 
back  ?      Why    regret  ?     These   very   people   who 
had  drifted  from  the  wife  still  received  her  with 
open  arms,  still  praised  her  with  gentle  speeches. 


258  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

In  requesting  to  act  in  the  theatricals  she  had 
been  obliging,  convenient,  rich,  and  kind.  Ear- 
nest, energetic,  persevering,  each  one  thought  her. 
Without  prejudice,  without  favor,  these  people 
maintained  they  saw  her  charms.  For  in  these 
passing  summer  days  was  not  Ruth  the  brightest, 
merriest,  happiest  woman  in  their  whirling,  tear- 
ing, dancing  set  ?  Now  they  saw  that  she  had 
talent.  Her  acting  far  surpassed  their  own. 
With  eager  eyes  they  watched  her  —  a  touch  of 
envy  in  their  souls.  An  actress  had  risen  among 
them  to  shine  above  their  heads,  to  grasp  the 
praise  which  they  maintain  was  all  their  own. 

How  quickly  the  ocean  changes  !  How  swiftly 
the  tide  turns  !  As  Ruth  developed  her  genius 
before  these  amateurs,  they  grew  to  hate  her  art, 
to  question  her  ability.  Her  husband  should  for- 
bid these  liberties  of  art.  The  stage,  so  danger- 
ous, so  fascinating,  might  step  in  and  claim  his 
happiness,  destroy  his  home.  Why  did  Lowel 
close  his  eyes  ?  Why  did  Lowel  fail  to  see  ? 
Monstrous  !  Preposterous !  Shocking !  Yet  the 
remarks  proclaimed  so  loudly  brought  no  answers 
to  these  kind  advisers,  anxious  friends. 

At  length  the  night  came.     The  seats  were  all 


A   S7~RAA'GE   CHOICE.  259 

taken,  the  house  was  crowded.  Already  people 
proclaimed  that  this  would  be  Ruth  Lowel's  last 
appearance  among  them.  She  was  going  on  the 
stage.  Breathless  they  watched  the  minutes,  lis- 
tened to  the  sounds  which  told  that  all  was  ready. 
The  bell  rang,  the  curtain  rose.  Ruth  is  before 
the  footlights,  looking  like  a  royal  queen.  Her 
dress  is  beautiful,  her  jewels  magnificent,  her  pose 
good,  her  expression  excellent.  Now  she  is  going 
to  speak.  The  melodious  voice  will  sound  like 
music  in  repeating  the  words  she  understands  so 
clearly,  the  sentences  she  knows  so  well. 

There  is  a  stir,  a  movement.  The  acting  has  be- 
gun. Ruth  is  going  slowly  through  her  part.  How 
her  diamonds  flicker !  How  her  eyes  gleam  and 
shine!  She  stops  —  just  an  instant  —  hush  - 
what  happens  ?  She  is  going  to  faint.  Every 
spectator  gazes,  every  listener  waits.  Joy  for 
those  who  envy,  success  for  those  who  watched 
her  in  the  glories  of  their  art.  The  time  has 
come.  Mourn  in  your  glances,  rejoice  in  your 
hearts.  The  sensitive  lips  are  trembling,  the 
beautiful  face  is  paling.  See  the  nervous  move- 
ment of  her  head,  the  twitching  of  her  hands. 
Another  effort,  a  struggle,  but,  alas,  the  words, 


260  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

the  actions  do  not  come.  Pity  for  the  actress, 
sympathy  for  the  woman  when  she  fails.  Where 
are  the  hard  studied  lines  ?  Where  the  practised 
arts?  Gone.  Like  the  smoke  of  burning  timber, 
all  has  vanished  into  space.  Mrs.  Lowel  stands 
motionless,  speechless.  Her  eyes  are  wandering 
by  the  people  through  the  open  doors.  She  does 
not  hear  the  comments,  she  -does  not  read  the 
wonder  of  the  audience,  she  does  not  see  the 
triumph  in  their  eyes. 

Hark  to  the  low  notes  of  music  the  orchestra 
is  playing.  The  sweet  strains  are  spreading ;  they 
seem  to  touch  her  woman's  heart.  Yes,  at  last 
strength  is  coming,  her  voice  has  been  restored. 
Is  there  time  ?  Is  the  curtain  falling  ?  Does  she 
hear  the  bell  ?  With  a  mighty  rush  her  energy 
returns,  then  quickly  she  commands  her  actions, 
her  words.  The  music  has  awakened  her  under- 
standing, touched  the  inmost  recesses  of  her 
soul.  Bravely  she  speaks  her  lines,  proudly 
she  goes  through  her  gestures.  The.  play  is 
in  motion,  the  actors  are  at  her  side.  Ruth 
is  gaining  courage,  Ruth  is  confident  now.  Her 
breath  comes  short,  her  heart  beats  fast ;  but 
not  for  an  instant  does  she  falter  through 


A    STRAXGE  CHOICE.  261 

the  play.  She  has  conquered  in  the  fight,  and 
won  great  praise. 

In  two  hours  the  performance  ends.  A  few 
speak  of  Mrs.  Lowel's  stage  fright  when  she 
first  stood  before  the  footlights  ;  but  only  these 
voices  join  in  the  comments  of  blame.  Her 
acting  is  real,  her  talent  is  great. 

Mrs.  Lowel  drove  home  alone.  She  had  con- 
trolled her  fears,  overcome  her  fright.  But  the 
dread,  the  suffering,  of  those  first  moments 
when  failure  overshadowed  her,  when  disappoint- 
ment seemed  so  near !  But  success  is  hers. 
Praise  rings  in  her  ears,  congratulations  on  all 
sides. 

And  what  did  Richard  think  ?  Had  he  been 
fearful  for  her  pride  in  those  few  moments  when 
she  lost  her  control,  her  speech,  her  lines  ?  But 
later  he  must  have  seen  her  triumph  and  gloried 
in  her  talent,  her  beauty,  and  her  praise. 

She  was  tired  and  anxious  to  reach  home. 
Nervous,  excited,  she  rushed  up  the  steps  into 
the  hall.  Through  the  open  door  she  saw  Rich- 
ard. Why  did  he  riot  come  to  meet  her? 
Throwing  off  her  cloak  she  rushed  to  him. 

"  Richard,"  she  cried,  "  was  I  not  brave,  glori- 


262  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

ous,  successful  ?  You  must  have  been  so  anxious 
—  then  so  proud."  Lowel  took  her  hands  in 
his. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said. 

"  Richard,"  she  went  on,  "now  you  must  admit 
my  talent,  confess  that  I  am  great." 

He  stroked  her  hands,  but    made    no   answer. 

"  At  first  it  was  dreadful  :  my  brain  reeled,  my 
feet  faltered,  my  nerves  trembled,  my  head  shook. 
In  those  moments  of  fear  I  remembered  you,  I 
heard  your  words.  They  rang  in  my  ears.  Then 
with  those  notes  of  music  came  strength,  came 
victory.  I  felt  I  must  not,  I  could  not,  fail.  You 
saw  my  expression,  Richard,  you  suffered  with 
me,  you  prayed  for  my  success."  She  pressed 
her  head  against  his  arm.  Richard  had  never 
seen  her  more  excited. 

"Calm  yourself,  Ruth,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  do  realize  the  tortures  I  endured,  you 
did  see  the  fear  in  my  eyes." 

"  But  you  did  not  fail,"  said  Lowel  hoarsely. 

"  No,  no  ;  I  did  not  fail." 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  murmured,  as  he  heard  her 
nervous  laugh. 

"  It    was   for  your   praise  I  worked,  for    your 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  263 

admiration  I  conquered.  Was  not  that  last  scene 
glorious  ? " 

"  Glorious.  But  the  strain  has  been  too  much 
for  you."  As  he  spoke  Lowel  rose  and  moved 
from  his  wife. 

"  It  is  over  now,  the  anxiety  at  an  end.  Re- 
member, Richard,  I  acted  for  you.  Each  word 
uttered  for  your  comment,  each  gesture  made  for 
your  criticism.  You  did  not  blame  me  when  I 
nearly  failed  ?  You  were  pleased  ?  Say  that  you 
were  pleased  —  delighted  —  satisfied."  How  her 
lips  trembled  with  nervousness !  how  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  eagerness  ! 

"I  am  pleased,  delighted,  satisfied,"  repeated 
Lowel;  "quite  satisfied." 


The  next  morning  Ruth  rose  early.  She  was 
still  weary  from  the  excitement  of  the  play. 
Philip  was  going  by  the  afternoon  train.  Ruth 
noticed  Richard's  silence ;  she  tried  in  vain  to 
make  him  talk.  The  boy  wanted  to  go  down  and 
say  good-by  to  the  sea.  Ruth  accompanied  him. 
She  watched  the  child  as  he  stood  on  the  rocks, 


264  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

the  swift  wind  blowing  in  his  bright  face,  his 
clear  eyes.  They  stood  together  hand  in  hand  by 
the  deep,  rolling  sea. 

"  Mamma,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  heard  your  car- 
riage driving  in  the  gate  last  night.  I  had  been 
awake  some  time." 

"  Could  you  not  sleep,  dear  ? "  asked  Ruth. 

"  No  ;  and  the  hours  seemed  very  long.  Papa 
came  and  sat  with  me." 

"  Papa  sat  with  you  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lowel, 
her  face  flushing  crimson. 

"  Yes ;  he  said  it  was  ten  o'clock  when  he  left 
me.  He  sang  to  me,  read  to  me,  and  tried  to 
make  me  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  thought  papa  was  out,"  said  Ruth. 

"  No,  mamma ;  papa  was  at  home  all  the 
evening." 

"  I  did  not  know  it,  dear,"  replied  the  mother, 
putting  her  hand  upon  the  boy's  shoulder.  The 
bitterness,  the  disappointment,  caused  by  those 
few  childish  words,  how  express  ?  Richard  was 
not  at  the  theatre  ;  Richard  did  not  see  her  act. 
It  was  his  presence  which  gave  her  nerve ;  his 
presence  which  enabled  her  to  overcome  her 
faintness  ;  his  presence  which  helped  her  to  sue- 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  265 

ceed.  Now  she  knew  that  Richard  had  not 
witnessed  her  beauty,  her  talent,  her  power. 
Bitterly  she  thought  of  his  indifference,  bitterly 
she  mourned  it. 

Not  many  days  had  passed  when  she  received 
an  offer  from  a  foreign  manager.  Her  success 
had  been  heralded  ;  she  was  going  on  the  stage. 
Richard  was  indignant,  angry,  mortified.  Ruth 
going  on  the  public  stage !  He  was  silent, 
dazed,  crushed.  He  had  no  words  for  argument. 
But  the  lines  in  his  face  deepened,  the  gray  hairs 
multiplied. 

Ruth  was  obstinate,  determined.  Richard 
thought  it  wise  to  let  her  go. 

He  put  her  in  the  carriage  at  her  own  door,  he 
pressed  her  hands  at  parting.  When  he  heard 
her  say  something  about  writing  regularly,  misery 
rose  in  his  throat  and  choked  him.  The  car- 
riage rolled  away,  the  sound  of  the  wheels  grew 
faint,  very  faint,  then  ceased.  In  the  shades  of 
deepening  twilight  Richard  knew  that  Ruth  had 
gone. 

At  the  boy's  next  vacation  Richard  Lowel  went 
abroad. 


A  STRANGE  CHOICE. 


PART    II. 


PART     II. 

MABEL  WARD  had  taken  up  her  life  in  Paris.  Her 
aunt  had  died  some  years  prior  to  this  time,  and, 
not  caring  to  return  to  America,  Mabel  lived  in  a 
quiet  street  near  the  Bois.  With  an  old  compan- 
ion and  a  young  friend  she  found  her  home  pleas- 
ant, her  days  occupied.  The  latter,  Anna  Lee, 
was  French,  on  her  mother's  side  only,  but  a 
foreigner  in  education  and  feeling.  Her  father 
was  an  American  who  had  spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  life  abroad.  Anna  Lee  was  many  years 
younger  than  Mabel  Ward,  a  few  years  older  than 
Philip  Lowel.  The  young  fellow  went  regularly 
to  visit  his  aunt.  It  was  during  these  visits  that 
his  intimacy  with  the  French  girl  began. 

Philip  Lowel  knew  nothing  of  his  mother,  he 
supposed  she  had  died  during  his  absence  at 
school.  He  had  a  vague,  very  vague,  recollection 
of  having  been  with  her  in  their  summer  home  in 
America,  as  a  boy ;  but  even  this  memory  was 
269 


2/0  A    STRANGE    CHOICE. 

fast  fading  from  his  mind.  "  You  lost  your 
mother  when  a  lad,"  his  father  had  said,  and  his 
aunt  had  used  the  same  expression  in  regard  to 
his  parent.  With  this  explanation  young  Philip 
was  satisfied.  Mabel  Ward  was  much  attached  to 
her  nephew.  She  admired  his  handsome  face,  his 
manly  nature.  The  young  man  found  his  aunt  a 
good  listener,  a  kind  relative,  a  sincere  friend. 
His  visits  to  her  house  were  frequent. 

Anna  Lee  was  beautiful,  cold,  clever,  proud. 
She  was  much  interested  in  literature,  society, 
religion,  and  the  poor.  A  strange  creature  with 
a  strong  nature,  a  peculiar  will.  She  felt  her 
beauty,  her  talent,  her  charms.  Philip  Lowel  felt 
them  too.  She  mystified  him  with  her  strange 
moods,  her  wit,  her  tempers.  Yet  Anna  was 
afraid  of  Philip's  judgments.  She  liked  his 
praise,  his  commendations ;  she  hated  blame  from 
him  :  he  must  approve  of  all  she  said  and  did. 

Philip  Lowel  had  graduated  with  honors  at  col- 
lege. He  studied  for  the  ministry,  taking  orders  in 
the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church.  Later,  through 
influence,  he  received  a  call  to  Paris  to  the 
rectorate  of  an  American  chapel.  His  church 
was  of  the  high  order  and  recently  established  in 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  271 

France.  Philip  looked  forward  to  struggles,  trials, 
successes,  triumphs,  with  the  new  forms,  with  the 
people ;  but  he  took  up  his  work  among  these 
strangers  with  a  fearless  determination,  a  strong 
will.  Those  who  rebelled  must  yield  ;  he  could  not. 

Among  his  congregation  were  those  who  wor- 
shipped the  church,  the  creed,  the  rector;  those 
who  thought  the  forms  too  complicated,  the  music 
too  operatic,  the  rector  too  ritualistic.  But, 
despite  these  complaints,  these  cries,  the  congre- 
gation proved  regular,  the  pews  filled,  the  aisles 
crowded.  The  young  man  felt  how  serious  was 
his  task,  how  difficult  his  work.  He  must  exert 
his  influence  among  these  people.  They  must 
feel  his  power.  He  must  preach,  they  must  lis- 
ten. He  must  ask,  they  must  give.  Earnest, 
hopeful,  enthusiastic,  persevering,  Philip  Lowel 
worked  in  the  foreign  city  among  the  Americans 
in  their  acknowledged  church. 

The  rector  lived  in  a  pleasant  quarter  of  Paris 
with  his  father,  now  an  old  man,  silent  and  sad. 
The  two  were  good  companions,  firm  friends. 
But  the  younger  often  failed  to  understand  the 
parent,  to  read  his  strange,  deep  thought.  With 
all  his  piety,  his  humility,  the  rector  was  not  sub- 


2/2  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

missive  to  sorrow,  sympathetic  to  grief.  He  be- 
lieved in  strength  and  cheer,  joy  and  sunshine. 
His  mind  was  clear,  his  spirit  bright.  Sowing 
in  hope,  reaping  in  joy,  his  life  knew  no  sorrow, 
his  heart  no  bitterness.  He  acknowledged  the 
good  of  the  world,  he  denied  the  evil.  He 
preached  against  trials  which  strengthened,  dis- 
appointments which  improved  the  being. 

"  More  often  disappointment  creates  wicked- 
ness," he  cried,  "  than  evil  follows  success.  The 
weak  man  does  not  always  strengthen  under  trials  ; 
the  strong  man  always  remains  steadfast  under  ad- 
versity, always  weakens  in  success.  Might  not  the 
sinner  be  saved  through  prosperity,  through  re- 
verses be  lost  ?  Our  natures  luxuriate,  spread, 
improve  in  the  warmth  and  heat  of  sympathy  and 
love,  —  in  the  chill  and  darkness  of  misunder- 
standing and  cruelty  do  they  not  shrink,  mourn, 
and  die  ? "  From  the  pulpit,  the  chancel,  loudly 
did  Lowel  declare  these  words,  pronounce  these 
doctrines. 

"  Pray,  work,  strive  towards  peace  and  right- 
eousness, love,  and  joy  !  Heaven  is  beautiful ; 
let  earth  seem  beautiful  too.  The  life  to  come,  for 
which  we  tolerate  the  present,  is  peaceful,  glorious  ! 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  2/3 

To-day,  if  we  cramp  our  natures,  narrow  our  under- 
standings, crush  our  hearts,  how  shall  we  prepare 
for  the  world  which  is  to  come  ?  Shall  we  carry 
our  cold  hearts,  our  selfish  natures,  our  bitter 
thoughts,  into  paradise?  Shall  we  allow  the  saints, 
the  Christian  soldiers,  the  martyrs,  to  know  the 
shallowness,  the  misery,  the  bitterness,  of  our 
souls  ?  Nay  !  Yet  how  prevent  it  ?  Shall  death 
so  change  our  spirits  ?  We  must  change  them  this 
day,  this  hour.  My  brethren,  take  Christ  into 
your  lives,  Jesus  into  your  homes.  Cast  sun- 
shine, give  love  about  you.  Your  hearts  cannot 
regret  the  sympathy,  the  radiance,  with  which  they 
overcast  the  shadows  of  the  world.  Surely,  with 
such  an  aim,  each  life  among  us  has  its  mission  to 
fulfil,  its  struggle  to  complete,  its  battle  to  fight, 
its  race  to  run,  its  crown  to  win." 

Lowel's  faith  was  great,  his  eloquence  wonderful. 
From  the  pulpit  his  eyes  shone  with  a  real  bril- 
liancy, his  face  radiated  with  a  true  light.  He  had 
talent  ;  he  had  knowledge.  The  women  thought 
he  preached  a  new  religion  ;  the  men  commended 
his  influence,  his  power.  Sunday  after  Sunday 
they  flocked  to  hear  him.  Silently  they  listened 
with  reverence  and  awe.  Those  in  trouble 


2/4  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

strengthened,  those  in  prosperity  softened.  In 
solemn  prayer  they  bent  their  heads  with  one 
accord.  These  people  found  it  easy  to  hearken  to 
their  preacher,  to  understand  his  earnest  words. 
" Repentance,  forgiveness,  must  come  now!"  he 
cried.  "  You  cannot  postpone  your  redemption  ; 
you  cannot  put  your  souls  aside.  Prepare  ye  then 
for  the  day  when  ye  shall  enter  paradise.  Pre- 
pare to  meet  the  Christ,  prepare  to  dwell  with 
God."  The  congregation  received  the  benedic- 
tion, earnest  in  purpose,  hopeful  in  heart. 

The  young  man's  words  were  not  uttered  in 
vain.  They  had  their  reward.  Far  back  in  the 
church  sat  one  listener,  one  woman,  whose  heart 
and  soul  were  touched.  From  her  position  she 
could  plainly  see  the  rector,  his  pale  face,  his  clear 
eyes,  his  broad  brow.  Many  times  had  she  gone 
to  hear  him,  to  bless  him,  to  receive  his  comfort, 
his  faith,  to  watch  his  earnest  manner,  to  hearken 
to  his  eloquent  words.  She  longed  to  speak  to 
him,  to  stop  him  as  he  passed  so  near  her  in 
going  out  the  church.  But  each  time  her  heart 
had  failed  her,  her  strong  determination  given 
out. 

At  length,  one  day,  she  asked  the  verger  to  say 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  27$ 

to  Mr.  Lowel  she  would  like  to  see  him  at  the 
entrance  of  the  church. 

"  He  will  see  you  in  the  vestry,"  the  man  came 
back  and  said. 

"  I  would  rather  see  him  here,"  murmured  the 
stranger. 

"  Mr.  Lowel  does  not  speak  with  his  parishion- 
ers here,"  persisted  the  man.  "  You  must  go  into 
his  vestry ;  no  conversation  is  allowed  within  the 
church."  It  was  with  trembling  steps,  reluctant 
heart,  that  Ruth  Lowel  made  her  way  toward  the 
vestry.  The  verger  ushered  the  strange,  stately 
lady  to  the  rector's  room.  With  downcast  eyes  and 
flushed  cheeks  the  mother  stood  in  the  presence  of 
her  son.  How  beautiful  she  thought  him  with 
his  honest  eyes,  his  sensitive  mouth,  his  pale  face ! 
He  rose  at  her  entrance  and  stretched  out  one 
hand,  with  the  other  tossed  back"  his  hair  from  his 
brow,  a  habit  of  childhood.  Ruth  put  her  slender 
fingers  in  his  hand.  His  touch  frightened  her. 

"  Mr.  Lowel,"  she  began,  "  I  am  a  stranger  to 
you.  I  wish  to  have  a  few  short  words  with  you  ; 
but  my  name  I  must  decline  to  give." 

Philip  drew  a  chair  towards  her.  As  she  seated 
herself,  he  said, — 


2/6  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

"  Conversation  under  these  circumstances  loses 
much ;  but  since  you  desire  that  we  shall  converse 
as  strangers,  I  have  no  objection,  except,  Madam, 
to  tell  you  that  in  matters  spiritual  I  must  have 
your  confidence.  It  is  a  difficult  matter  to  give 
consolation  to  one  whose  name  and  history  remain 
obscure  ;  but  you  can  judge  the  truth  of  this  fact 
as  easily  as  I  can."  There  was  a  touch  of  formal- 
ity about  the  young  man's  words  which  fell  like 
ice  upon  the  woman's  heart. 

"  You  may  know,  Mr.  Lowel,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  that  for  some  weeks  past  I  have  been  a  regular 
attendant  at  your  church,  an  earnest  worshipper, 
believe  me." 

Philip  inclined  his  head. 

"  A  regular  attendance  at  prayer  is  always  a 
gain  to  every  soul,"  he  said. 

"  I  heard  your  sermon  to-day,  —  your  beautiful 
words,  your  words  of  comfort,  your  words  of  warn- 
ing. My  heart  yearned  towards  you."  Ruth 
drew  back ;  she  had  not  meant  to  say  so  much. 

"  It  is  well,"  said  Philip,  turning  his  clear  eyes 
away  from  the  stranger's  gaze,  "to  have  one's 
heart  touched,  but  it  is  your  soul  more  particularly 
which  I  would  strive  to  reach." 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  277 

"You  have  reached  my  soul,"  exclaimed  the 
woman.  "  You  have  given  it  consolation,  hope." 

"Are  you  in  any  trouble?"  asked  Lowel. 

"  No,  no  !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger.  "  I  am  in 
prosperity ;  at  least,"  she  added,  "  in  what  the 
world  calls  prosperity.  I  am  not  poor,  nor  ill,  nor 
in  sorrow." 

"  What  the  world  calls  prosperity  is  not  always 
true  happiness,"  said  Philip  gravely.  "  But,  since 
you  are  not  in  sorrow,  not  in  need,  how  is  it  that  I 
can  help  you  ? " 

"  In  many  ways,"  cried  Ruth. 

"  Tell  me  one  that  I  may  begin  at  once,"  said 
the  rector  kindly. 

"You  can  advise  me,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  How  ?  " 

"  You  can  point  out  to  me  the  manner  in  which 
I  can  atone  for  the  past,  improve  the  present, 
endure  the  future." 

"With  all  my  heart  I  am  willing  to  help  you," 
said  the  rector. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  my  story  now  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day ;  but  come  to-morrow  at  this  hour, 
and  I  shall  be  glad  to  talk  to  you  here  after  the 
service,  to  help  you  all  I  can." 


278  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

Ruth  held  out  her  hands.  "  Take  my  hands," 
she  cried,  "and  bless  me." 

"  Philip  raised  his  eyes.  "  God  bless  you,"  he 
said.  "  God  Almighty  bless  you." 

In  joy,  fear,  dread,  Ruth  made  her  way  out  of 
the  vestry  and  through  the  church.  Here  and 
there  she  saw  an  altar-boy  at  work.  She  hastened 
her  steps,  she  trembled.  What  right  had  she 
within  those  walls  ?  Had  she  .  not  deceived  the 
rector  ?  Had  she  not  been  afraid  to  tell  him  who 
she  was  ?  But  had  she  not  heard  his  words, 
touched  his  hand,  received  his  benediction  ?  "  O 
God,  Thou  art  merciful "  she  murmured,  as  she 
walked  with  bowed  head  through  the  streets  to 
her  own  home. 

Once  behind  the  closed  doors  of  her  own  chamber 
Ruth  Lowel  threw  herself  upon  her  knees.  A 
short,  earnest  prayer  went  up  from  the  woman's 
heart  and  gave  her  peace.  "  Philip,"  she  mur- 
mured, "  little  Philip,  my  own  beloved  child,  must 
the  separation  continue  through  the  years  to 
come,  the  sorrow  remain  forever  with  me  ? " 
Then,  rising  from  her  knees,  Ruth  walked  up  and 
down  the  room.  Her  beauty  was  still  apparent, 
her  grace  charming.  The  face  had  changed  :  the 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  279 

lines  were  stronger,  the  features  older.  But  what 
of  that? 

Later,  a  knock  at  the  door  caused  her  to  force 
back  the  tears  rising  so  quickly  in  her  eyes. 
The  maid  entered  with  a  tray.  Ruth  ate  but 
sparingly. 

"  Madame  has  no  appetite,"  said  the  maid. 

"  Very  little,"  replied  her  mistress  absently. 

"  Madame  must  eat  something  before  going  to 
the  theatre,"  urged  the  woman. 

"  Nothing.  Have  my  supper  ordered  on  my 
return,  Marie." 

The  maid  began  to  arrange  the  dress  which 
Ruth  was  to  wear  that  evening.  For  the  society 
belle  had  reached  her  ambitions,  had  seen  them 
gratified.  It  had  been  no  easy  task  to  mount  the 
ladder  to  fame.  At  the  first  step  it  had  seemed 
tempting;  at  the  second,  tiresome;  at  the  third 
impossible  to  the  actress.  But  Ruth  had  per- 
severed, succeeded.  Now  she  stood  at  the  very 
height  of  public  favor,  an  American  acting  in 
Paris,  French  plays.  Her  knowledge  of  the  lan- 
guage had  served  her  well.  She  spoke  the  lines 
perfectly.  She  studied  hard,  she  rehearsed  con- 
stantly, she  acted  well;  her  beauty  was  remarked, 


280  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

her  talent  praised ;  her  gestures  graceful,  her 
voice  good,  her  movements  pleasing. 

The  constant  occupation  of  her  life  had  kept 
Ruth  from  wondering,  sorrowing.  But  now  this 
very  day  the  sound  of  her  son's  voice  had  roused 
her,  the  sight  of  his  face  revived  old  memories, 
forgotten  days.  How  well  she  remembered  the 
child  in  that  summer  of  long  ago  !  His  words, 
his  actions,  were  all  fresh  in  her  mind,  in  her 
heart.  If  she  could  only  clasp  the  strong  man 
to  her,  confess  to  him  her  name,  her  troubles, 
her  failures,  her  mistakes  !  Would  he  plead  for 
her  ?  would  he  uphold  her  cause  ?  Because  she 
had  been  before  the  footlights,  trod  the  boards 
of  publicity,  received  applause,  admiration,  praise, 
would  he  blame  her  ?  If  so,  for  what  good  was  his 
religion,  his  sermons,  his  prayers  ?  Must  he  not, 
of  all  people,  consider  her  actions,  be  charitable, 
be  forgiving  —  if  he  had  aught  to  forgive?  His 
life  must  make  him  good  and  true. 

Yet  Ruth  dared  not  put  him  to  the  test.  He 
had  never  known  her,  loved  her,  as  she  had  known 
and  loved  him.  Now,  in  the  beginning  of  his 
life,  in  the  start  of  his  work,  could  she  prove 
a  stumblins-block  ?  Could  she  ruin  his  career? 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  281 

Could  she  horrify  the  good  people  of  his  congre- 
gation ?  Could  she  declare  herself  his  mother, 
while  before  the  footlights  a  brilliant,  radiant 
actress  ?  These  very  people  for  whom  he  was 
striving,  preaching,  with  whom  he  was  praying, 
working,  would  flee  from  his  pews  aghast  —  his 
church  forsaken,  his  life  desolate.  "Your  own 
choice  to  be  upon  the  stage,"  Ruth  murmured  to 
herself.  "You  went  away,  you  left  him;  he  did 
not  forsake,  but  needed  you."  These  thoughts, 
so  cruel,  so  true,  cut  the  mother  deep. 

The  actress  played  less  well  that  night.  She 
failed  to  rouse  enthusiasm,  to  merit  loud  applause. 
She  was  tired  and  out  of  sorts,  the  audience  re- 
marked, in  going  from  the  play.  The  actress  had 
fulfilled  an  engagement  of  weeks  in  Paris ;  now 
the  critics  said  she  needed  rest.  The  public 
wanted  something  new.  But  Ruth  strove  to  over- 
come this  weariness  which  she  had  felt  for  many 
days.  She  must  show  her  strength,  her  will, 
—  prove  to  these  people  that  she  could  command 
her  talent  to  even  now  succeed. 

A  different  scene  was  passing  from  that  in  the 
heated  theatre  at  the  quiet  home  of  Mabel  Ward. 
Philip  Lowel  had  dined  with  them,  and  Richard 


282  A    STRANGE    CHOICE. 

was  expected  later.  Mabel  was  at  work  writing 
letters.  Her  seat  was  apart  from  Anna  Lee,  but 
the  elder  woman  heard  odd  scraps  and  sentences 
of  the  conversation  going  on  between  her  nephew 
and  her  friend.  Philip  related  in  part  the  events 
of  his  day.  Anna  smiled  at  his  descriptions,  his 
earnestness  in  speaking  of  the  members  of  his 
congregation. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ? "  asked  Philip. 

"  Because  I  am  amused.  You  are  so  droll. 
You  believe  in  all  things.  Your  faith  is  very 
great." 

"  So  is  yours,"  cried  Lowel,  "  only  you  like  to 
have  a  discussion  for  the  sake  of  argument." 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Anna  Lee  with  a  provok- 
ing smile.  "  But  you,  of  all  men,  must  convince 
me  in  argument." 

"  So  I  do,"  cried  Lowel. 

"  You  do  not  convince  me  in  this  case,"  said 
Anna  Lee. 

"  If  not  to-day,  to-morrow  I  shall  prove  the  fact 
to  you." 

"  In  twenty-four  hours  a  lawyer  may  greatly 
strengthen  his  case,"  said  the  girl,  "  but  to  prove 
your  words  you  must  convince  me  now." 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  283 

"  Have  ye  then  so  little  faith  ?  "  quoted  the 
rector. 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  must  give  me  more." 

"  If  a  woman  beautiful,  sorrowful,  earnest,  be- 
lieving, came  to  you  for  advice,  would  you  laugh 
at  her,  would  you  turn  from  her  ? "  asked  Philip 
gravely. 

"  I  should  not  accept  every  word  she  uttered," 
said  Anna  Lee. 

"  What  is  this  discussion  ? "  inquired  Mabel 
Ward,  rising  to  greet  her  brother-in-law. 

"  We  are  quarrelling  as  usual,"  laughed  Anna. 

"  Not  about  me,  I  trust  ?  "  said  Richard  with  a 
touch  of  gayety  as  he  took  the  young  girl's  hand. 

"This  does  not  concern  you  in  any  way,  Mr. 
Lowel,"  said  Anna  Lee. 

"No,  father;  not  in  any  way,"  laughed  Philip. 

Richard  Lowel  seated  himself  near  Mabel 
Ward,  and  with  his  presence  the  conversation 
became  general.  The  old  man  referred  con- 
stantly to  his  son,  looking  at  the  young  fellow 
with  fond  eyes.  It  was  his  habit  to  ask  Philip's 
advice  on  all  matters ;  to  regard  his  judgment. 
The  son  did  not  wholly  understand  his  parent. 
In  the  years  when  Richard's  sorrow  came  to  him, 


284  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

he  kept  Ruth's  existence  a  secret  from  the  boy. 
Later  the  old  man  felt  the  great  barrier  between 
them,  for  his  wife's  name  would  never  cross  his 
lips  in  the  presence  of  his  son.  Richard  thought 
to  save  the  lad  ;  he  never  dreamed  of  what  might 
come. 

To  Mabel  Ward  he  sometimes  spoke  of  Ruth, 
but  from  the  day  she  went  away  he  had  never 
seen  her  face.  At  first  she  had  written,  then 
gradually  the  letters  came  at  longer  intervals 
—  at  length  they  ceased  to  come  at  all.  Richard 
heard  her  name  through  the  papers.  He  never 
made  the  effort  to  speak  with  her,  to  see  her  act. 
Mabel  Ward  had  seen  her  sister  during  her  fre- 
quent visits  to  Paris.  Ruth  was  always  affec- 
tionate, kind,  earnest,  but  the  younger  girl  saw 
the  difference  which  had  crept  into  her  heart, 
the  gulf  which  divided  the  actress  from  herself. 
Time  after  time  Mabel  hoped  for  some  sign  of 
contrition,  some  word  of  regret  from  the  actress ; 
but  the  beautiful  woman  seemed  quite  satisfied 
with  her  interests,  her  occupations,  her  stage. 
To  Mabel  Ward  her  enthusiasm  remained  a  mys- 
tery. It  would  take  a  clearer  head  than  hers  to 
comprehend  her  sister's  mind,  she  thought.  To 


A   STRAA'GE   CHOICE.  285 

Anna  Lee  she  never  mentioned  the  matter.  The 
girl  might  tell  Philip,  and  the  rector  was  to  be 
spared  this  knowledge,  this  blow.  His  life  could 
only  widen  the  gulf,  and  put  the  actress  farther 
from  them. 

Philip  Lowel  had  never  been  to  the  theatre. 
His  strict  principles,  his  rigid  doctrines  against 
the  stage,  the  world,  and  the  devil  denied  him  the 
privilege,  the  pleasure,  of  seeing  the  poorest  or 
the  best  production  upon  the  public  stage.  His 
father  set  him  this  example  when  a  young  lad  at 
college.  "  Keep  away  from  the  footlights,  my 
boy,"  he  would  say. 

Anna  Lee  could  not  resign  the  happiness  of 
witnessing  a  good  stage  performance.  She  loved 
the  players,  the  lights,  the  music,  the  plays.  It 
was  fairyland  to  the  girl.  Yet  of  actresses  Anna 
had  a  refined  horror.  On  the  stage  she  gazed  at 
them  with  admiration,  awe.  In  private  life  she 
scorned  their  glance,  their  touch.  She  would 
close  her  own  doors  against  them,  she  declared. 

Anna  Lee  had  seen  Ruth  Lowel  act.  She 
admired  her  charms,  her  grace.  She  saw  her 
talent,  her  power.  She  regarded  the  woman  as 
a  finished  actress,  a  genius.  Did  she  dream  in 


286  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

her  to  behold  a  social  lion,  a  favorite  of  fashion, 
an  equal,  a  superior  ?  No,  no ;  Anna  Lee  was 
ignorant,  quite  ignorant  of  this. 

Again  Philip  Lowel  stood  in  the  pulpit ;  again 
he  spoke  of  goodness,  charity,  religion.  The 
earnest  man  urged  his  people  on  to  prayer,  to 
action.  The  rector  dwelt  upon  the  beauty  of  the 
soul.  "  Keep  your  spirits  free  from  guile,  keep 
them  pure,  keep  them  holy.  Ye  who  to-day  stand 
before  the  altar  vigorous  in  body,  strong  in  health, 
carry  that  same  vigor  into  your  hearts,  that  same 
strength  into  the  purpose  of  your  souls  Fight 
for  Jesus  in  the  daily  trials,  strive  for  Jesus  in 
the  struggles  of  this  life.  Shall  we  all  stand  idle  ? 
Shall  we  wait  and  see  the  shadows  deepen  and  the 
light  fade  from  the  sky  ?  No !  Delay  not  one 
moment.  To-day  !  This  hour  begin  the  prepara- 
tion of  our  souls.  With  the  evening  of  life  come 
weakness,  feebleness,  coldness  !  While  there  yet 
is  time,  while  the  strength,  the  power,  the  youth 
are  in  you,  save  your  bodies  and  your  souls.  If 
ye  tremble,  if  ye  fear,  pray  to  Jesus.  He  can 
plead,  he  can  intercede  to  the  Father,  who  for  his 
sake  will  sanctify  your  spirits,  will  help  and 
cleanse  your  hearts." 


A   STKANGE   CHOICE.  287 

Again  Ruth  Lovvel  listened  to  the  rector's 
words,  again  not  the  actress,  but  the  mother,  bent 
her  head  to  receive  the  benediction. 

A  few  moments  later  the  tall  lady  walked  to 
the  vestry.  As  a  stranger  she  entered  the  young 
man's  presence,  as  a  stranger  she  raised  her  eyes 
before  his  direct,  clear  gaze.  He  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"  An  unexpected  call  from  a  sick  parishioner 
must  shorten  our  interview  to-day  ;  but  a  few 
minutes  may  suffice  to  explain  your  story,"  he 
said. 

Mrs.  Lowel  bowed  her  head. 

"  It  is  difficult  for  you  to  begin,  I  see,"  he  con- 
tinued kindly. 

"  Very  difficult,"  murmured  the  stranger. 
"  First,  I  must  explain  to  you  that  I  have  been 
married."  She  glanced  at  Philip,  but  saw  no  sur- 
prise in  his  eyes ;  his  expression  remained  un- 
changed. "  My  husband,  for  it  is  of  him  I  wish 
to  speak,  I  met  years  ago  in  Paris.  Filled  with 
memories  are  these  streets,  this  city.  It  was  not 
far  from  here  we  were  married.  The  years  went 
by  quickly ;  my  life  was  happy,  content.  I  had 
the  joy  of  a  son,  a  beautiful  child.  I  loved  him. 


288  A   STRAA'GE   CHOICE. 

"  Later  came  misunderstandings,  disagree- 
ments, arguments,  words,  between  my  husband 
and  myself.  I  thought  him  changed,  indifferent, 
cold.  My  nature  was  dissatisfied,  my  mind  un- 
easy. Energetic,  ambitious  by  disposition,  I 
began  to  long  for  something  new  —  new  interests, 
new  scenes,  new  thoughts,  new  occupations.  I 
felt  my  brain  working  with  naught  to  work  upon, 
my  heart  yearning  with  naught  to  jest  upon.  I 
must  have  occupation,  I  must  have  breath  for  my 
lungs,  life  for  my  body,  hope  for  my  future.  I 
could  not  write,  I  would  not  sing,  I  could  not 
paint,  but  why  not  act  ?  In  a  moment  the  idea 
grasped  my  yearning  spirit,  the  thought  seized  my 
ardent  mind.  I  was  requested  to  appear  at  a  per- 
formance for  charity  at  the  theatre.  I  planned  to- 
surprise,  to  please,  my  husband.  With  this  foun- 
dation my  studies  began." 

She  paused,  and  then  asked,  "What  need  to 
trouble  you  with  further  details?"  But  she 
continued,  "  I  appeared  upon  the  stage  after 
weeks  of  study.  In  my  excitement,  my  enthu- 
siasm, I  nearly  failed,  but  my  husband's  praise 
was  before  me,  the  hope  of  his  words  led  me 
on.  With  victory  I  was  crowned  that  night.  It 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  289 

was  the  next  day  I  learned  the  truth  —  he  had 
not  been  at  the  theatre,  he  had  not  seen  me  act. 

"  In  this  disappointment  I  heard  no  words  of 
comfort,  no  words  of  pity.  Who  could  under- 
stand ?  But  an  offer  from  a  manager  soon  fol- 
lowed to  turn  my  thoughts  to  great  objects,  to 
real  things.  Longing  for  occupation,  study, 
work,  success,  I  accepted  the  offer,  I  left  my 
home.  To-day  I  am  an  actress  who  appears  each 
night  upon  the  stage." 

Philip  Lowel  had  listened  carefully  to  every 
word  of  the  stranger's  story.  As  she  concluded 
he  drew  back  and  straightened  himself  in  his 
chair.  An  expression  almost  scornful  passed  over 
his  handsome  face.  As  the  woman  touched  his 
arm  he  turned  away. 

"  You  scorn  me,"  cried  Ruth,  "  because  I  am 
an  actress,  because  I  live  upon  the  stage." 

The  color  came  into  the  young  man's  face  as  he 
watched  the  disappointed  woman. 

"Not  scorn  you.  No,"  he  said,  "only  blame 
you." 

"  You  blame  me,"  she  cried,  "  you  from  whom 
I  had  expected  consolation,  hope,  forgiveness  ? " 

"I  have  nothing  to   forgive,"  said  the  rector. 


290  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

"  It  is  hardly  my  part  to  comment  so  freely.  It 
was  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  I  did  so. 
Pardon  me." 

How  grave  and  formal  Lowel  looked  !  How 
stern  and  distant  seemed  his  words !  It  was  of 
no  use  to  hope  that  he  would  understand,  of  no 
avail  to  plead  with  him. 

"  It  is  of  my  son  I  wished  to  speak  to  you," 
said  Mrs.  Lowel. 

"  Your  son  does  not  forgive  you,  then  ? "  asked 
the  rector. 

"  He  does  not  know  me.     We  are  strangers." 

"  Strangers !  " 

"  Yes.     We  parted  long  ago." 

"  How  terrible  !  how  wrong  ! "  exclaimed  Lowel. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  asked  Ruth.  "  I  am  afraid 
to  plead  with  him." 

"  Afraid  of  your  son  ?      Impossible  !  " 

"  My  presence  would  in  no  way  benefit  him," 
said  the  stranger. 

"It  must  benefit  a  man  to  know  his  mother," 
murmured  Lowel,  passing  his  hand  across  his 
brow. 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  could  understand,  for- 
give," said  Ruth  boldly. 


A   STRAA'GE   CHOICE.  291 

"What  judge  am  I?"  replied  the  rector.  "I 
have  never  known  the  name  of  mother.  But  they 
tell  me  she  was  beautiful  and  good." 

The  stranger's  face  turned  pale. 

"  Your  father  is  still  living?"  she  inquired. 

"  Dear  old  father,  he  is  spared  to  me,"  cried 
Philip. 

"  Then  you  are  not  alone.  But  imagine  your 
life  without  him,  without  love,  without  joy." 

"  I  could  not,"  said  Lowel.  "  Again  and  again 
have  I  preached  that  pleasure  is  right,  that  joy  is 
good.  Life  would  be  almost  impossible  without 
love,  without  happiness." 

"  I  have  heard  you  say  so  from  the  pulpit," 
cried  Ruth.  "I  remember.  I  believe  you." 

"  It  is  well,"  said  Philip.  "  For  the  true  joy  is 
peace,  the  peace  which  we  pray  for  hereafter. 
But  shall  we  not  be  allowed  to  taste  of  it  now  ? 
Is  it  not  evil  which  brings  sorrow,  wrong  which 
creates  disappointment,  regret  ?  Of  these  shall 
we  not  willingly  taste  in  earth,  nor  in  heaven." 

"  How  easy  your  religion  makes  your  life ! " 
said  Ruth. 

"Not  easy,  but  more  beautiful,  more  possible, 
perhaps.  Can  you  not  in  the  same  way  improve 
your  life  ?  "  he  asked. 


2Q2  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

"  It  is  what  I  long  to  do." 

"  Begin  at  once,"  said  Lowel. 

"  Shall  I  go  to  my  son  ?  Shall  I  plead  with 
him?" 

"  By  all  means ;  and  let  not  time  weaken  your 
purpose,  your  good  resolves." 

"  Will  he  receive  me  ?     Will  he  listen  to  me  ? " 

"  It  is  his  duty  as  your  son,"  Philip  said  gravely. 
Then  the  rector  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  looking  at 
his  watch,  said  the  moments  had  passed  too 
rapidly,  his  appointment  was  at  hand.  The  pale, 
beautiful  woman  stood  erect  before  him.  For  an 
instant  their  eyes  met,  then  Philip  pushed  aside 
the  curtain  at  the  door. 

"  You  must  come  again  ;  my  time  was  short  to- 
day," he  said.  The  stranger  bowed  her  head,  but 
no  sound  came  from  her  proud  lips.  In  another 
instant  the  rector  heard  her  steps  as  she  walked 
quickly  through  the  church  and  out  the  open 
door. 

After  she  had  gone  he  stood  irresolute,  a 
strange  expression  in  his  face,  a  look  of  perplexity 
in  his  dark  eyes. 

That  evening  Philip  spent  with  Anna  Lee. 
Again  he  spoke  to  her  of  the  beautiful  stranger, 


A    STRAA'GE   CHOICE.  293 

the  tall,  graceful  lady,  who  was  but  an  actress,  a 
stage  favorite,  after  all. 

"An  actress!"  she  exclaimed,  "how  provok- 
ing!" 

"  Why  provoking  ?"  asked  Philip. 

"  Because  I  scorn  actresses.  I  had  persuaded 
myself  that  this  woman  was  unusual,  interesting, 
refined." 

"  So  she  is,"  laughed  Lowel. 

"  It  is  impossible.  The  very  life  she  leads,  the 
publicity,  would  make  her  bold,  common,  ordi- 
nary," declared  Anna  Lee. 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken.  I  confess  at  the 
first,  when  I  learned  her  profession,  I  too  was 
prejudiced,  horrified ;  but  this  woman  is  far  from 
ordinary.  There  is  nothing  of  the  actress  about 
her,  I  assure  you." 

"  How  old  is  she  ? " 

"  No  longer  young ;  she  is  past  middle  age. 
But  she  has  a  peculiar  charm,  a  peculiar  beauty, 
which  can  never  fade." 

"You  are  very  partial,"  murmured  Miss  Lee. 

"I  wish  to  be  just,"  replied  the  rector. 

"Does  beauty  demand  justice?"  asked  Anna. 

"  Character  does,"  said  Philip,  laughing. 


294  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

"  Then,  do  not  be  too  just,  I  beg  you." 

"  Would  you  shake  my  faith  ?  "  inquired  Lowel. 
.  "  I  would  make  you  less  charitable,  less  kind," 
laughed  Anna. 

"  You  hide  your  goodness,  your  tenderness. 
You  think  it  weak  to  be  lenient,  foolish  to  be 
charitable,  don't  you  ? " 

"  I  think  it  uncomfortable,"  said  handsome 
Anna  Lee.  "  I  keep  my  heart  out  of  sight  lest  it 
may  trouble  me." 

"  Foolish  woman,"  rejoined  the  rector,  looking 
gravely  at  the  girl  so  cold,  so  proud,  so  fascinating 
to  him.  "  Why  hide  your  heart  from  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  disclose  that  which  is  so 
precious  ? " 

"  That  I  may  see  it,"  replied  Philip  quickly. 
But  Anna  Lee  did  not  listen  to  the  young  man's 
words  ;  she  turned  away  to  speak  to  Mabel  Ward, 
and  in  another  moment  she  had  gone  swiftly  from 
the  room. 

"  Well,  Philip,"  said  Mabel,  turning  kindly  to 
the  young  fellow  as  he  stood  looking  after  the 
girl's  retreating  figure,  "  what  have  you  had  on 
hand  to-day  —  anything  unusual  ?" 

"  Nothing  exceptional,"  said  her  nephew.     "  Our 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  295 

life  as  clergy  is  a  continuance  of  unusual  things  : 
experiences  of  one  kind  and  another  all  the 
time." 

"  But  to  you  the  occupations,  the  changes,  the 
chances,  are  interesting." 

"  So  is  the  work,  aunt  dear,"  added  the  young 
man. 

"  Of  course,  I  had  not  forgotten  that,  although 
I  neglected  to  enumerate  it  as  one  of  the  items." 

"The  greatest  of  the  items,  ma  tante." 

"  Your  father  so  considers  it :  indeed,  he  often 
wonders  if  you  do  not  work  too  constantly." 

"  Poor  father  thinks  my  sermons  laborious  to 
me  because  he  thinks  them  good.  I  can  hardly 
convince  him  that  the  ideas,  the  words,  come  too 
quickly,  too  easily,  to  my  pen." 

"And  where  is  your  parent  this  evening?" 
inquired  Mabel. 

"  You  are  not  to  expect  him  :  he  has  friends 
on  business  to-night." 

"  I  am  sorry ;  for  I  think,  Philip,  it  always 
cheers  him  to  come  here,  to  be  with  us." 

"  It  does.  But  tell  me,  Aunt  Mabel,  the  rea- 
son father  is  so  often  sad,  abstracted,  lonely, 
silent?" 


296  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

"He  had  troubles  long  ago.  You  were  too 
young  to  understand." 

"  May  I  not  hear  them  now  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Now  —  well  —  now  you  are  too  old." 

"That  is  nonsense,"  cried  the  young  man.  "If 
my  father  has  had  trials,  troubles,  should  I  not 
know  them  so  that  I  can  better  sympathize,  better 
understand  ? " 

"The  pain  of  them  is  over,  the  humiliation  of 
them  past,"  said  Mabel  ;  "  to  revive  these  memo- 
ries can  do  no  good.  Even  I  hesitate  to  recall 
them  to  the  old  man's  mind." 

"But  does  he  not  suffer,  remember  in  silence, 
and  alone  ? "  asked  Philip. 

"Of  course  he  does.  The  sting  is  smarting 
still,  and  the  comfort  of  hope  is  dead  forever." 

"  My  mother's  death  is  a  lasting  sorrow,  I  can 
see,"  said  the  young  man  sadly.  "Father  must 
have  loved  her  very  dearly.  But  what  wonder,  for 
he  tells  me  she  was  good,  beautiful,  and  true  ?  " 

"Dear  Philip,"  murmured  Mabel,  "my  sister 
gave  many  of  her  most  lovable  traits  to  you.  I 
love  you  for  her  sake,  and  for  your  own  nobleness, 


A   STRAA'CE   CHOICE.  297 

greatness."  The  rector  put  out  his  hand,  and 
took  his  aunt's  in  silent  token  of  his  affection, 
—  his  admiration  for  her. 

They  talked  on  for  some  time,  and  then  their 
conversation  turned  to  other  things. 

The  next  morning  Richard  Lovvel  received  a 
note  from  his  sister-in-law,  begging  him  to  call 
upon  her.  She  had  a  question  to  put  to  him,  she 
wrote. 

On  going  out  an  hour  later,  Richard  lost  no 
time  in  directing  his  steps  to  Mabel's  house.  He 
found  her  alone.  The  old  man  noticed  how  pale 
she  looked  as  he  greeted  her.  A  sudden  fear  took 
possession  of  him  ;  she  had  news  to  communicate. 
Instantly  his  thoughts  flew  to  Ruth  Lowel.  Could 
anything  have  happened  to  her  ?  The  old  man's 
mind  often  dwelt  upon  the  actress,  his  wife. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Ward,  seeing  Richard's  anxiety,  and  guessing  the 
nature  of  his  thought.  "  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of 
you.  It  has  been  suggesting  itself  to  me  for 
some  time,  and  I  concluded  to  mention  it  this 
morning."  She  seated  herself  on  the  sofa,  and 
Lowel  took  a  chair  directly  opposite  to  her. 

"Richard,"  she  continued,  "I  had  a  talk  with 


298  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

Philip  yesterday.  I  do  not  know  how  the  conver- 
sation led  to  it,  but  we  spoke  of  Ruth."  The  old 
man  started.  "  Philip  asked  me  some  questions 
concerning  your  life,"  the  woman  went  on,  "  ques- 
tions most  natural  on  the  part  of  a  son,  but  I 
could  not  answer  them.  I  think,  Richard,  we 
have  made  a  grave  mistake  ;  he  should  know 
something  of  his  mother."  Mr.  Lowel  frowned 
uneasily.  "  Philip  is  too  old  to  be  kept  in  igno- 
rance ;  he  must  know  that  his  mother  is  living," 
persisted  Miss  Ward. 

"  In  this  knowledge  we  would  only  cause  him 
pain,"  said  Lowel. 

"  But  have  we  the  right  to  keep  the  facts  from 
him  ? " 

"  We  must  think  of  his  position,  his  church," 
exclaimed  the  old  man. 

"  Should  this  knowledge  ever  come  to  him,  he 
would  blame  us,  and  justly,  for  the  secret ;  I  am 
confident  of  it.  With  his  strict  ideas  of  right  and 
wrong,  he  would  never  forgive  even  our  best  in- 
tentions." 

"  Here  in  Paris,  where  Ruth  acts  under  an 
assumed  name,  what  risk  can  there  be  ?  No  one 
ever  mentions  her  to  us,"  persisted  Lowel. 


A    STRAXGE   CHOICE.  299 

"Nevertheless,  I  am  convinced  he  ought  to 
know  of  her  existence." 

"  I  cannot  tell  him,  Mabel  ;  I  cannot  with  my 
own  hand  inflict  the  blow." 

"  Then  I  shall  tell  him.  Please  give  me  your 
consent.  I  understand  his  feelings.  I  can  break 
the  news  to  him,  gently,  kindly." 

"  Let  it  be  as  you  say,"  sighed  Lowel ;  "  I  have 
not  the  nerve  for  this.  I  love  my  son  too  much." 

Miss  Ward  was  silent.  Already  she  was  going 
over  in  her  own  mind  how  she  should  break  the 
news  to  Philip. 

The  opportunity  was  soon  given  her,  for  he 
stopped  to  leave  a  book  for  Miss  Lee,  and,  as 
Lowel  took  his  leave,  Mabel  detained  her  nephew. 

"  A  few  moments,  Philip,"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  upon  his  arm.  The  young  clergyman  did 
not  stop ;  he  was  in  haste,  he  said,  as  he  started 
toward  the  door. 

"  But  you  must  have  time  for  this.  I  have 
something  very  important  to  say  to  you,"  pleaded 
Miss  Ward. 

Lowel's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"This  morning  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  This  moment,"  said  his  aunt,  taking  a  step 


300  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

towards  him  ;  then,  as  the  young  man  turned 
round  and  met  her  glance,  Mabel's  courage 
wavered. 

"  It  is  of  your  father's  life  —  of  the  past  of  what 
we  spoke  yesterday,  I  have  to  say."  The  young 
man  advanced  nearer.  "  Don't  come  to  my  side  ; 
don't  stand  looking  at  me,  Philip,  while  I  tell  you 
this;  it  seems  to  make  it  harder —  the  words  do 
not  come  when  I  feel  your  eyes  upon  me,"  cried 
Miss  Ward,  a  sudden  dryness  in  her  throat.  "  I 
must  tell  you  something  of  my  sister,  your  mother." 

Young  Lowel  flushed  crimson.  How  often  had 
he  longed  to  ask  of  her,  to  hear  the  details  of  her 
life,  her  death  !  "  Then  you  will  tell  me  how  she 
lived,  how  she  died  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  can,  but  one  promise  you 
must  give  me  —  that  you  will  ask  no  questions  of 
your  father  nor  of  me."  The  rector  seemed 
startled  at  this.  For  a  moment  he  remained 
silent,  then  he  asked,  — 

"  Is  it  right  to  exact  a  promise  from  me  in  such 
a  matter  ?  Is  it  just  ?  " 

"  It  is  best,"  said  Mabel  Ward.  In  looking  at 
her  face  the  young  man  saw  her  distress,  and  to 
spare  her,  said  he  was  satisfied. 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  301 

"Do  you  remember,"  Mabel  went  on,  "you 
asked  me  last  night  why  your  father  was  often 
abstracted,  silent,  and  sad  ?  I  told  you  he  had 
troubles  long  ago  ;  but  for  reasons  for  your  good,  I 
did  not  say  just  what  his  troubles  were.  Philip, 
your  mother  is  alive." 

"  Alive  !  "  gasped  the  rector,  turning  red,  then 
white. 

"  Yes.  As  a  child  you  believed  her  dead.  Now 
the  truth  must  be  revealed  to  you ;  she  is  living." 

"  My  beautiful  mother  living,"  repeated  the 
young  man.  He  seemed  dazed,  confused.  "When 
shall  I  see  her,  know  her  ? "  he  stammered. 

"  Never,  Philip." 

"  Never  !  Horrible  thought !  she  is  alive,  and 
yet  I  may  not  meet  her  —  love  her  !  What  does 
it  all  mean  ?  Where  is  she  ?  Who  is  she  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

"These  very  questions  you  ask  of  me  I  cannot 
answer.  Let  it  satisfy  you  to  know  that  she  is 
well  —  and  happy." 

"  Far  from  it.  Eagerly  do  I  long  to  know  her, 
to  care  for  her.  Pray  what  wrong  has  she  done  ? " 
A  look  of  anger  shot  from  the  rector's  dark  eyes, 
a  look  of  scorn  overspread  his  features. 


302  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

"  No  wrong  ;  but  remember  you  have  promised 
to  ask  no  questions  of  your  father  nor  of  me." 
The  rector  pressed  his  hands  together.  Mabel 
had  never  seen  him  more  agitated,  more  nervous. 

"  Has  she  done  any  wrong  to  either  of  you  ?  " 
he  demanded.  "  This  you  shall  tell  me." 

"  Long  ago  she  went  away  from  your  father's 
house,  she  left  him.  Had  he  not  loved  her,  pitied 
her,  a  separation  might  have  followed.  It  was  a 
case  of  desertion  with  no  cause  of  complaint 
against  her  husband.  Your  father's  affection  for 
you  has  made  him  generous,  patient,  kind." 

"  Poor  old  father  !  "  murmured  the  rector,  "  and 
she  was  so  beautiful,  so  good,  he  tells  me  !  " 

"  She  has  many  charms." 

Just  at  this  instant,  when  Philip  had  much  to 
say,  much  to  consider,  an  interruption  being  most 
unwelcome,  the  door  opened  and  Anna  Lee 
came  in. 

"  The  last  sound  in  the  evening,  the  first  sound 
in  the  morning  !  What  is  it  ?  Answer  the  riddle  ! 
Guess  quickly  !  Why  !  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 
exclaimed  the  girl,  standing  motionless  in  her 
gayety  to  watch  her  friends'  pale  faces. 

"  I  was  talking  on  a  serious  matter  to  my  nephew 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  303 

this  morning,"  said  Miss  Ward,  "but  we  have 
finished  now.  You  need  not  go  away,"  she  added 
as  Anna  walked  to  the  door. 

"No,  for  I  am  going,"  murmured  Philip,  in  a 
strange,  dry  voice.  "This  book,"  he  continued 
gravely,  "I  brought  for  you."  He  held  out  his 
hand  to  his  aunt.  She  saw  how  the  joy  had  faded 
from  his  eyes. 

"  Good-by,  dear  Philip "  she  cried,  a  sudden 
pity  overwhelming  her.  "  Good-by." 

Then  she  sank  into  a  chair  exhausted. 

"Mabel,"  cried  Miss  Lee,  going  quickly  to 
her  friend  and  bending  over  her,  "what  has 
happened  ? " 

"  It  is  nothing  —  nothing.  I  am  quite  well  now. 
Just  a  slight  faintness.  I  had  something  awkward, 
something  unpleasant,  to  tell  my  nephew." 

"  Why  did  not  some  one  else  tell  him  ? "  cried 
Anna  Lee  indignantly,  as  she  watched  her 
friend's  pale  face.  "  Why  must  you  be  the  one 
to  do  the  disagreeable,  you  be  the  one  to  suffer  ? " 

"Don't  say  that.  It  was  my  own  fault.  I 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  speak  to  him.  His  father 
is  old,  tired,  and  sad." 

"  If  you  elect  yourself  to  do  all  the  disagreeable 


304  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

things,  you  will  soon  be  old,  tired,  and  sad  too," 
persisted  the  girl,  justly  angry  at  Mabel's 
discomfort. 

"  It  is  over  now.  I  had  a  difficult  thing  to  do, 
and  I  have  done  it,"  said  Miss  Ward.  But  in 
spite  of  these  assertions  the  younger  woman  soon 
after  noticed  the  change  in  Mabel's  moods  and 
ways.  She  had  something  on  her  mind.  Anna 
Lee  was  confident  of  it,  and  she  determined 
to  investigate  the  cause,  to  remove  it  if  she 
could. 

But  with  all  these  good  intentions  the  girl  could 
not  unravel  the  difficulty,  nor  fathom  the  mystery 
which  surrounded  the  Lowels  and  Mabel  Ward. 
It  seemed  to  Anna  that  Philip  had  changed.  At 
first  she  wondered  if  she  had  offended  the  rector, 
displeased  him  with  her  brusque  questions,  her 
outspoken  remarks.  But  surely  Lowel  was 
accustomed  to  her  moods,  her  peculiarities. 

One  day  she  spoke  to  Miss  Ward.  In  vain  she 
questioned  her  friend,  in  vain  she  pleaded  for  the 
explanation  of  the  change. 

"  Philip  never  discusses  with  me  now,"  said  the 
girl,  her  handsome  face  denoting  anger,  "never." 

"  He  has  but  little  time  at  this  season,"  replied 


A    STRAXGE   CHOICE.  305 

his  aunt  :  "  he  is  so  constantly  occupied  with 
his  church  duties." 

"  Nonsense  !  If  he  wanted  time,  he  could  make 
it,"  declared  Anna  Lee. 

"  Has  he  been  neglectful  of  you  lately,  dear  ?  " 
inquired  Mabel,  her  face  breaking  into  a  question- 
ing smile. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  say  that.  What  claim  have 
I  to  his  attentions  ? "  There  was  scorn  in  the 
words  of  Anna  Lee. 

"  The  same  claim  that  we  all  have.  Are  you 
not  in  the  same  position  as  we  are  ?  " 

"  No.  I  am  not  his  relation.  I  have  only  the 
right  to  expect  friendship." 

"  Is  not  friendship  even  more  precious  often 
than  relationship  ?  "  asked  Mabel. 

"  Not  in  this  case.  I  can  see  how  little  worth 
my  sincerity  proves  to  the  rector." 

"  Forgive  his  lack  of  courtesy,"  said  his  aunt. 

"  His  lack  of  interest,  you  mean,"  cried  the  girl. 

"His  lack  of  interest  then,  for  just  now  he  is 
so  busy." 

"  How  ridiculous  you  are  ! "  exclaimed  the 
younger  woman,  now  really  angry.  "  I  well  know 
his  duties.  Have  I  not  listened  to  his  descriptions 


306  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

of  them  ?  Have  I  not  discussed  them  with  him  ? 
Do  I  not  know  just  what  his  occupations  are  ? 
You  cannot  satisfy  me  with  these  excuses  ;  I  am 
too  well  acquainted  with  his  interests  for  that." 
She  tossed  her  head  as  she  spoke. 

"  Will  it  satisfy  you  to  know  that  Philip  is  in 
trouble  ?  "  said  his  aunt. 

"  In  trouble,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "  and  he  never 
told  me  ? " 

"  He  heard  something  which  worries  him." 

"  From  whom  ?  "  demanded  Anna. 

"  From  me." 

"  What  news  could  you  tell  him  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say,  but  perhaps  he  will  tell  you ; 
indeed,  I  sincerely  wish  he  would,"  said  Miss 
Ward.  "  Ask  him,  Anna,"  she  urged. 

"  I  ask  Philip  to  tell  me  his  secrets  ?  Never  ! 
Little  does  he  know  me.  Only  those  things 
which  he  willingly  tells  me  do  I  care  to  know." 

"  But  in  this  case  your  sympathy  would  be  most 
desirable,"  continued  Miss  Ward. 

"My  sympathy  is  not  waiting  for  applicants," 
cried  the  girl  hotly.  Mabel  saw  it  was  quite 
useless  to  say  more.  The  subject  ended,  nor  was 
it  ever  renewed  between  them. 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  307 

Richard  Lowcl  had  gone  to  England.  He 
crossed  the  channel  for  business  reasons  only. 

When  he  left  Paris  he  intrusted  his  son  to  his 
aunt's  care.  Mabel  invited  Philip  to  stay  at  her 
house  during  his  father's  absence.  The  rector 
accepted  the  invitation,  cheerfully  and  quickly. 
The  plan  displeased  Miss  Lee,  who,  in  her  present 
state  of  indignation  against  the  rector,  hated  the 
idea  of  his  presence  in  the  house.  But  the  duties 
of  his  church  kept  the  young  man  constantly 
occupied,  and  the  girl  need  not  have  cared. 

The  fashion  of  Paris  had  sped  away  to  gayer 
places,  cooler  climes ;  the  strangers,  too,  had  long 
since  gone.  But,  of  his  congregation,  the  rector 
saw  new,  old,  and  familiar  faces  ;  his  work  was  in 
no  way  lessened  by  the  absent  ones. 

Some  weeks  passed.  Changes  came  to  Miss 
Ward's  home.  She  never  quite  knew  how  it 
happened,  why  it  occurred,  but  the  truth  was 
evident.  Anna  Lee  was  engaged  to  Philip  Lowel. 
The  young  man  was  puzzled  by  his  aunt's  pale 
face  when  he  told  her  the  news.  How  strange 
she  looked  !  how  cold  she  was  !  how  silent !  He 
had  pictured  her  pleasure,  her  delight,  in  his  new 
happiness.  He  wrote  the  news  to  his  father. 


308  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

The  old  man  sent  him  a  short  note  in  answer.  A 
long  letter  of  many  pages  came  to  Mabel  Ward. 
The  contents  were  read  by  one  pair  of  eyes  only, 
then  destroyed. 

But  the  young  people  were  happy,  light-heaited. 
They  cared  sincerely  for  each  other.  What  more 
could  they  need  to  complete  their  lives,  to  fulfil 
their  dreams  ? 

When  the  engagement  was  announced,  the 
rector  received  congratulations  from  many  of  his 
flock.  There  were  some  who  began  to  think  him 
frivolous,  worldly.  Why  must  he  marry  ?  Why 
did  he  not  devote  his  whole  life  to  Christ  ?  Those 
who  blamed  him,  now  interpreted  his  sermons  in  a 
different  light,  in  a  new  language.  He  preached 
against  sacrifice.  Did  he?  He  argued  against 
sorrow.  Did  he  ?  He  believed  only  in  joy,  only 
in  sunshine.  Did  he  ?  There  were  others  who 
denied  these  charges,  these  facts.  Lowel  had 
only  pictured  the  beauty  of  love,  peace,  righteous- 
ness. He  had  thought  the  soul  stronger  ofttimes 
in  prosperity  than  in  trouble. 

Of  these  things  the  young  man  was  not  ignorant. 
Little  by  little  the  complaints  reached  him  ;  the 
whisperings  sank  into  his  ears,  and  were  present 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE  309 

in  his  heart.  He  dared  not  tell  them  to  Anna  ; 
these  things  belonged  to  him  alone.  If  he  had 
violated  his  principles,  his  teachings,  she  was  not 
the  one  to  suffer  for  it.  But  for  all  this  Philip 
Lowel  was  happy,  though  hardly  satisfied  with  the 
strange  attitude  of  his  congregation  and  his  friends. 
Anna  Lee  saw  the  frowning  faces,  the  eager, 
curious  glances  of  the  people.  She  watched 
them  shake  their  heads,  talk  and  laugh  as  Philip 
moved  in  their  midst,  with  his  affianced  bride 
upon  his  arm.  Like  a  flame  of  fire  the  girl's 
anger  rose  ;  higher  and  higher  the  red  sparks  flew; 
deeper  and  deeper  sank  the  sting  into  her  soul. 
Was  this,  then,  the  reward  of  the  faithful  preacher, 
the  conscientious  rector  ?  Was  this  to  be  his 
crown  ?  Was  this  to  be  his  triumph  ?  The  proud 
girl  bent  her  head  like  a  white  lily  before  the 
heat  of  sun.  How  cruel  it  was  !  How  wicked  ! 
Yet,  of  what  avail  to  cry  aloud  her  anguish,  to 
proclaim  the  aching  of  her  heart  ?  Who  would 
listen  ?  Who  would  believe  ?  Who  believing, 
understand  ?  Would  her  sorrow  change  the  cur- 
rent, stave  the  tide  of  public  prejudice,  public 
blame  ?  Could  she  change  these  people  ?  Could 
she  make  them  feel  their  cruelty,  their  ingrati- 


310  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

tude  ?  Could  she  turn  their  disfavor  into  praise, 
their  anger  into  love  ?  With  her  young  nature, 
her  ardent  spirit,  she  longed  to  cry  aloud  these 
questions ;  to  find  answers  written  in  the  faces  of 
her  friends. 

During  these  many  changes  Philip  Lowel  had 
almost  forgotten  the  stranger,  —  the  beautiful 
woman  who  had  sought  him  in  the  church.  Not 
so  with  the  stranger  ;  the  young  rector  was  never 
absent  from  her  thoughts.  She  had  given  up  her 
present  engagement  at  the  theatre ;  just  now  she 
found  it  very  difficult  to  act.  Again  and  again 
had  the  longing  come  to  Ruth  to  speak  to  her 
son.  Since  that  last  interview,  when  she  had 
been  so  strangely  moved  by  his  presence,  his 
words,  the  actress  dared  not  see  him.  But  now 
the  news  had  reached  her  of  his  engagement ;  and 
the  desire  to  be  with  him,  to  love  him,  had  over- 
whelmed the  woman's  heart.  She  had  thought  of 
writing  to  him,  and  begging  him  to  come  to  her ; 
but  then  Ruth  thought  she  ought  not  to  do  it. 
What  right  had  she  to  steal  a  visit  from  her  son  ? 

It  was  Philip  who  noticed  her  one  day  as  she 
sat  in  the  corner  of  a  pew  in  the  side  aisle  of  the 
church.  The  service  had  not  begun.  Remem- 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  311 

bering  the  woman,  and  seeing  her  eyes  following 
him  as  he  moved  from  pew  to  pew,  he  stopped  at 
her  side. 

"You  are  well?"  he  asked,  a  kind  expression 
in  his  face. 

"Thank  you,  yes,"  exclaimed  Ruth,  a  happy 
light  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  some  time  since  I  have  seen  you  at 
church." 

"  For  a  time  I  did  not  come,"  said  Ruth. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ? "  the  woman  murmured. 

"  Yes."  The  rector  bent  his  head  towards  the 
stranger. 

"  I  thought  the  actress  was  not  welcome  here." 

"  The  woman  is.  Within  these  walls  the  actress 
does  not  live,"  said  the  rector. 

"  And  if  she  did  live,  could  she  come  here  ?  " 

"  Repenting  of  her  profession,  her  life." 

"  I  have  done  no  wrong,"  cried  Ruth. 

"  Let  it  not  be  for  me  to  so  accuse  you,"  said 
Philip  sadly. 

"  Have  you  time  to  speak  with  me  in  private 
before  the  service  ? "  asked  the  stranger. 

"Fifteen  minutes,"  replied  the  rector. 


312  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

"  May  I  come  into  the  vestry  now  ? " 

"  If  you  like  ;  "  and  with  quick  steps  the  rector 
walked  through  the  church. 

When  the  stranger  stood  alone  before  him,  the 
old  yearning  came  back  to  reveal  herself  to  him, 
to  acknowledge  who  she  was.  She  did  not  take 
the  chair  he  offered  her. 

"  Mr.  Lowel,"  she  began,  speaking  quickly,  "  I 
hear  you  are  going  to  be  married.  I  would  greatly 
like  to  see  the  woman."  The  rector's  face  flushed  ; 
it  struck  him  as  unbecoming  in  the  actress  to 
mention  Anna  Lee.  "  I  have  never  seen  her," 
she  went  on,  "but  I  am  sure  she  is  good  and 
beautiful."  The  young  man  glanced  at  the  stran- 
ger. She  saw  the  anger  in  his  dark  eyes,  the 
scorn  in  his  handsome  features.  "  I  speak  of  her 
because  I  have  the  right.  I  do  not  know  her  ; 
but  to-morrow,  did  I  wish,  I  could  stand  in  her 
presence  as  to-day  I  stand  in  yours,  demanding 
her  attention,  her  respect." 

"Madame,"  interrupted  the  rector. 

"  Don't  interrupt  me,"  cried  the  woman  ;  "  I 
must  speak ;  you  must  listen.  This  deception, 
this  ignorance,  is  killing  me."  The  man's  lips 
moved,  but  he  uttered  no  sound,  as  he  stood 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  313 

gazing  at  the  strange  woman  before  him.  "  You 
cannot  blame  me ;  you  cannot  deny  me,  before  it 
is  too  late.  While  your  father  lives,  while  the 
actress  breathes —  Philip  —  acknowledge  me,  com- 
fort me,  bless  me !  "  She  bent  upon  her  knees, 
her  beautiful  head  bowed  low  before  the  rector. 
Reverently  she  took  his  hand,  reverently  she 
kissed  it.  "Philip."  The  words  reached  the 
rector's  ears.  "  Years  ago,  a  little  child,  you 
loved  me,  you  lived  for  me,  you  belonged  to  me. 
My  darling,  my  child,  my  son,  do  not  cast  me 
away  ;  do  not  scorn  me  ! " 

The  agony  of  that  beautiful  face,  the  anguish  of 
those  cries,  Philip  Lowel  ever  remembered,  never 
forgot.  Pale,  stunned,  fearing,  he  raised  the 
woman  from  the  floor.  He  could  not  utter  one 
word,  one  sentence.  It  seemed  to  him  that  life 
was  filled  with  evil  lies.  His  religion  was  a 
mockery,  his  prayers  a  farce. 

He  turned  away  from  the  actress,  he  pressed 
his  hands  to  his  hot  brow. 

"  Philip,"  said  Ruth,  "  the  temptation  was  so 
terrible,  I  could  not  resist  the  one  great  longing 
of  my  life."  His  dark  eyes  rested  upon  her  face, 
then  he  closed  his  lids  as  though  to  shield  her 


314  A   STXANGE   CHOICE. 

from  his  gaze.  "  Can  you  not  love  me  ?  Can  you 
not  forgive  me  ? "  she  asked.  "  Can  you  not 
uphold  me?" 

"Ask  nothing  of  me,"  he  said ;  "you  have  done 
enough.  My  cross  is  almost  more  than  I  can 
bear."  The  woman  went  to  him,  she  touched  his 
arm. 

"  I  am  going  now.     Good-by,"  she  said. 

An  hour  later,  as  the  rector  mounted  the  steps 
to  the  pulpit,  the  congregation  saw  the  whiteness 
of  his  face,  the  strange  expression  in  his  eyes. 
Did  any  one  guess  his  sorrow,  read  the  suffering 
in  his  heart  ? 

He  preached-  earnestly,  loudly.  What  words 
were  these  he  uttered  ?  What  doctrines  ?  What 
blasphemy  ?  "  Sin,  the  blackness,  the  cruelty,  the 
power,  of  sin  !  "  he  cried.  "  It  drags  us  down,  it 
defiles  us !  Who  is  great  enough  to  resist  ? 
Who  is  Christian  enough  to  escape  ?  No  man. 
The  lies,  the  deceit,  the  cruelty,  of  the  world. 
Who  has  not  felt  it,  suffered  it?  Every  soul 
among  us  !  Who  here  to-day  has  risen  above  that 
which  is  earthly  to  prefer  that  which  is  holy  ? 
No  one.  The  blackest  clouds  overhang  our  lives, 
the  darkest  shadows  threaten  us.  Where  is  our 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  315 

refuge  ?  Where  our  power  ?  Is  it  in  the  scandal 
of  our  homes,  in  the  dark  places  of  our  souls  ? 
Shall  our  tongues  save  us  ?  No  !  But  our 
tongues  shall  destroy  others,  our  slander  shall 
form  the  barriers  of  our  neighbor's  salvation. 
Denounce  the  innocent,  ye  hypocrites  !  Cast 
blame  at  the  hearts  of  other  men.  What  is  the 
world  but  hideous,  the  earth  but  wicked  ? " 

Out  of  breath,  excited,  the  rector  stopped  to 
glance  about  the  people.  With  open  eyes  they 
listened ;  they  accused,  they  hated,  the  preacher 
who  declared  such  theories  in  the  pulpit  of  their 
church.  Away  with  him !  they  cried.  Away 
with  him  ! 

Philip  Lowel  saw  the  growing  discontent,  the 
declining  of  his  influence.  He  cared  not.  Heart- 
sore,  weary,  disappointed,  he  decided  soon  to 
leave  the  church.  These  people  could  find  a  new 
rector,  he  could  not  satisfy  them  now. 

How  he  hated  to  tell  the  news  to  Anna  Lee ! 
For  Paris  he  cared  nothing.  For  his  father,  his 
aunt,  he  cared  much.  Go  he  must.  There  were 
many  things  to  confess  to  Anna.  How  would 
she  receive  them  ?  Could  she  bear  all  ?  Could 
she  love  him  still  ? 


3l6  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

That  very  evening  he  went  to  her.  She  rose  at 
his  entrance  and  met  him  at  the  door. 

"Philip,"  she  cried,  "tell  me  quickly  what  was 
ill  with  you  this  day  ?  The  sermon  you  preached 
was  horrible ;  the  people  will  not  forget  those 
words." 

"  Anna,"  he  replied,  "  I  spoke,  though  harshly, 
from  my  aching  heart  Know  you,  dearest,  what 
it  is  to  suffer,  to  be  weary  ?  " 

"  No,  Philip,"  said  the  girl,  looking  up  into  his 
handsome  face. 

"  I  do.  This  day  I  have  learned  the  sting  of 
disappointment,  the  smart  of  pain." 

"  Philip." 

"  Do  not  look  so  startled,  dearest.  I  shall  tell 
you  all."  She  seated  herself  near  him  while  he 
told  his  story.  The  story  of  the  actress,  the 
secret  of  his  mother.  Anna  Lee  was  patient. 
Anna  Lee  was  kind.  But  the  agony  of  her 
lover's  feelings  —  the  anguish  of  his  mind  ! 

"You  will  receive  her?"  he  asked,  "or  must  I 
renounce  you,  my  love,  my  future,  my  life  ? " 

"  What  you  do,  Philip,  in  this  matter,  I  shall  do 
also.  If  she  is  your  mother,  she  must  be  my 
mother  too." 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  317 

"Dearest  Anna,"  he  whispered,  "will  you  stand 
by  in  my  resignation  from  the  church  ? " 

"  Your  resignation  from  the  church  !  What  do 
you  mean  ? " 

"These  people  are  dissatisfied  with  me.  My 
mother  they  would  hate." 

"  Philip,  I  have  seen  this  growing  discontent. 
But  can  we  not  ignore  it,  scorn  it,  live  it  down  ? " 

"  No,  Anna.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  reports 
once  started,  unpopularity  once  murmured,  the 
strongest  cannot  live  it  down.  These  people 
would  never  feel  towards  me  again  as  once  they 
did  in  the  days  past  and  gone." 

"You  who  were  so  faithful,  Philip?" 

"  The  past  cannot  change  the  present ;  they 
dislike  me  now  —  that  is  sufficient,"  the  rector 
said.  But  his  troubles  seemed  to  lessen,  his  heart 
to  rejoice  again,  as  he  looked  at  the  noble  woman 
by  his  side.  She  trusted  him.  She  understood, 
she  sympathized. 

"  You  must  receive  your  mother,  Philip,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  It  is  our  duty  to  make  her  happy, 
to  change  her  from  the  actress  to  the  wife." 

"  How  can  we  reconcile  my  father  ?  I  dare  not 
mention  her  name  in  his  presence." 


3l8  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

"  But  he  must  know  of  her  existence.  He 
cannot  blame  you,  Philip." 

"  If  you  will  speak  with  her  it  is  all  I  ask. 
You  can  see  her  in  the  church  at  the  morn- 
ing services."  The  rector  looked  anxiously  at 
Anna. 

"This  very  day  shall  I 'watch  for  her,"  the  girl 
replied  ;  "  have  no  fear." 

It  was  quite  late  on  the  evening  of  Richard's 
return  from  England,  when  a  strange  lady  pre- 
sented herself  at  his  front  door. 

"Monsieur  has  only  just  returned  to  Paris,"  the 
butler  declared  to  the  questions.  "  He  sees  no 
guests  this  evening." 

"  But  this  is  urgent  business.  Take  my  card," 
the  woman  replied. 

Then  into  Mr.  Lowel's  parlor  the  wife  was 
ushered.  She  looked  with  timid  gaze  at  the  orna- 
ments, the  pictures.  Richard's  house.  Richard's 
belongings.  Richard's  home.  How  short  the 
time  seemed  now  since  she  had  known  him.  She 
heard  his  voice  answering  the  butler.  At  the 
familiar  sound  her  heart  beat  fast,  her  color  fled. 
How  greet  him  ?  How  address  him  ?  How  plead 
with  him  ?  She  knew  not.  Impatient,  fearful, 


A    STRANGE   CHOICE.  319 

she  waited.  A  figure  stood  at  the  door.  A  foot 
crossed  the  threshold.  A  voice  said,  — 

"  Ruth  ! " 

"Do  not  blame  me!  I  came  to  beg  forgive- 
ness, mercy." 

"Ruth,"  repeated  the  voice. 

"  If  you  have  any  pity,  any  affection,  for  me, 
let  me  speak  in  hope,  in  ignorance." 

"  What  brings  you  here  ?  " 

"  My  love  for  Philip." 

"  Speak  not  of  him." 

The  stranger  glanced  at  the  man  standing 
motionless  before  her.  How  old,  how  changed, 
he  looked !  Had  time,  the  destroyer,  rested  its 
harsh  hand  so  heavily  upon  him  ?  Had  the  sor- 
rows of  the  past  been  so  furrowed  on  his  brow  ? 
The  woman  uttered  no  word  ;  speech  forsook  her 
in  the  pity  of  her  heart  for  the  old,  white-haired 
man. 

"  It  is  to  spare  my  son  I  beg  you  leave  me," 
the  voice  went  on  ;  "  his  life  must  be  considered, 
now  that  mine  is  done." 

"  No,  no,  say  it  not,"cried  the  woman. 

"  His  future  is  before  him  ;  let  us  not  over- 
shadow its  joys  by  our  foolish  memories.  The 


320  A   STRANGE   CHOICE. 

past  is  dead.  Why  revive  its  pains  ?  why  disturb 
its  disappointments  ? " 

"  To  me  the  present  is  but  the  past ;  the  echoes 
even  now  resound  from  hour  to  hour.  I  hear  the 
voices  of  days  gone  by  repeated  in  my  life.  I 
care  not  for  the  present.  I  will  sacrifice  the 
future  for  one  sweet  moment  of  the  past."  The 
old  man  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow. 

"  But  of  him  must  we  think ;  for  Philip's  sake 
shall  we  not  renew  the  past."  The  figure  moved 
to  the  door ;  but  the  woman  darted  forward. 

"  You  shall  not  leave  me  thus,"  she  cried ;  "  I 
have  suffered,  for  this  hour  longed  ;  now  must 
you  hear  me  out.  For  my  son  I  shall  renounce 
my  present  life,  give  up  my  profession,  my 
stage." 

"These  years  have  I  spared  him  the  knowl- 
edge of  your  public  life ;  it  is  only  lately  he  has 
learned  that  you,  his  mother,  lives."  At  this 
word  the  color  mounted  to  the  woman's  face. 

"  No  longer  can  I  bear  the  separation  ;  no 
longer  can  I  stand  the  loneliness,  the  sorrow,  of 
my  days.  Let  Philip  come  to  me.  Have  I  not 
the  right  to  him  ?  "  she  asked.  A  look  of  anger 
crept  into  the  old  man's  eyes  at  this  question. 


A    STAANGE   CHOICE.  321 

"  While  I  live  you  shall  not  take  him  from  me," 
the  father  cried. 

"  Think  you  not  that  I  have  done  without  him 
patiently,  nobly,  these  long  years  ?  Now  my  turn 
has  come." 

"  You  left  him,"  said  Richard. 

"  I  left  him  :  now  I  return  to  him,"  said  Ruth, 
her  beautiful  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground. 

"  He  knows  no  mother  ;  his  wife  will  love  him 
soon."  The  stranger  made  a  movement  of  dis- 
dain. She  turned  her  eyes  to  the  door  —  a  figure 
stood  erect  upon  the  threshold. 

"  Philip  !  "  she  cried,  "  Philip  ! "  The  old  man 
turned.  His  face  paled,  his  body  trembled. 

"  My  son,"  he  murmured  hoarsely,  then  tottered 
to  his  side. 

Motionless  the  two  stood  looking  at  the  stranger 
in  their  home. 

"  Father,"  said  Philip,  in  his  strong,  young 
voice. 

"A  stranger  to  you,"  muttered  the  old  man, 
pointing  to  the  woman. 

"  Nay,  father,  say  it  not.  She  is  no  stranger  ; 
she  belongs  to  us."  The  color  left  the  woman's 
face.  Oh,  the  rush  of  gratitude,  the  wave  of 


322  A    STRANGE   CHOICE. 

joy,  which  overspread  her  soul !  The  rector  ad- 
vanced ;  in  his  strong  hand  he  took  her  trembling 
fingers.  In  a  moment  they  rested  in  the  old 
man's  withered  grasp. 

"Take  her,"  said  the  rector;  "take  her,  father, 
to  your  heart."  With  a  sob  of  joy,  love,  peace, 
Richard  drew  the  woman  toward  him. 

"Ruth,"  he  murmured,  "Ruth."  Her  head 
sank,  her  lips  moved  in  a  mute  prayer.  The 
rector  had  restored  her  blessings ;  she  owed  this 
happiness,  this  joy,  to  him.  His  prayers,  his 
sermons,  had  so  changed  the  man  to  the  priest, 
the  rector  to  the  servant  of  the  Lord. 


The  time  drew  near.  It  was  Philip  Lowel's  last 
day  in  the  church  where  he  had  lived  and  worked. 
The  pews  were  filled  as  he  stood  before  the 
congregation. 

His  last  sermon  was  great,  wonderful.  With 
his  words  of  wisdom,  words  of  comfort,  the  people 
sat  impressed.  It  seemed  that  a  divine  power 
had  been  given  him,  a  mighty  strength  been 
granted  him,  that  day.  Even  now  among  that 


A   STRANGE   CHOICE.  323 

congregation  are  some  who  can  recall  his  beauty, 
his  eloquence,  his  goodness,  his  grace.  An  all- 
seeing  One  had  blessed  the  rector,  an  Almighty 
hand  had  guided  him  in  that  last  trial.  His  face 
was  pure,  his  spirit  holy,  these  people  said.  Why 
must  he  leave  them  ?  Who  could  fill  his  place  ? 
But  the  sorrow  came  too  late  ;  the  congregation 
had  blamed  him.  He  was  not  worthy  to  admin- 
ister, to  feed  their  souls,  they  said. 


A  quiet  wedding  took  place  soon  after,  in  the 
early  morning  of  a  new  day.  The  bride  was  pale, 
haughty,  beautiful,  as  she  promised  at  the  altar 
the  vows  of  wedded  life.  In  the  front  pew  was 
Richard  Lowel,  beside  him  stood  his  wife.  Mabel 
Ward  was  close  at  hand.  The  words  were  quickly 
spoken,  the  benediction  said. 

Then  beautiful  sounded  the  organ,  triumphantly 
sang  the  choir. 

THE    END. 


000  037  385 


